I 

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UC-NRLF 


UNIYGRS1TY  Of  CALIFORNIA 
LIBRARY 


-YY\ 


THE  MEN 
WHO  BLAZE 
THE  TRAIL 


THE  MEN 
WHO  BLAZE 
THE  TRAIL 


AND  OTHER  POEMS 

BY 

SAM.  C.  DUNHAM 


With  an  Introduction  by 

JOAQUIN  MILLER 


Let  others  sing  of  those  who've  won 

Full  hoard  of  virgin  gold! 
1  strike  the  lyre  for  those  who've  none, 

But  yet  are  strong  and  bold. 


NEW  YORK 

BARSE  &  HOPKINS 

PUBLISHERS 


COPYRIGHT,  1913,  BY 
BARSE  &  HOPKINS 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  MEN  WHO  BLAZE  THE  TRAIL 19 

Let  others  sing  of  those  who've  won. 
ALASKA  TO  UNCLE  SAM   21 

Sitting  on  my  greatest  glacier. 
COMRADES  OF  THE  KLONDIKE  26 

Have  you,  too,  banged  at  the  Chilkoot  ? 

A  REPLY  27 

I,  too,  have  banged  at  the  Chilkoot. 
ARCTIC  LIGHTNING  29 

Far  cut  where  the  sullen  darkness. 
TO  JOAQUIN  MILLER 30 

Here  at  the  Gate  of  the  Arctic. 
JUST  BACK  FROM  DAWSON  31 

I've    just    got    back    from    Dawson,    where    the 

Arctic  rainbow  ends. 
SENCE  I  COME  BACK  FROM  DAWSON....      36 

Sence  I  come  back  from  Dawson  to  these  old 

familiar  scenes. 
I'M  COIN'  BACK  TO  DAWSON  41 

I'm  goin'  back  to  Dawson,  an'  suppose  I  must 

explain. 
A  FATAL  GIFT   48 

When  a  man  gets  along  to  about  forty-two. 
THE  LAMENT  OF  THE  OLD  SOUR  DOUGH.      51 

I've  trudged  and  I've  starved  and  I've  frozen. 
THE  GOLDSMITH  OF  NOME 55 

I  am  resting  by  my  anvil. 
SINCE  THE  JUDGE  LEFT  HERE  FOR  NOME      66 

Like  one  just  waking  from  a  dream,  I  walked 
abroad  to-day. 


17] 


395506 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

TO  THE  YUKON  ORDER  OF  PIONEERS...      72 

Will  you  let  an  Arctic  Brother  lay  a  garland  on 

the  bier? 
A  GREETING  TO  THE  SWEDES  76 

We  learn  to-day  that  you've  received  a  message 

from  the  Sound. 
THE  POOR  SWEDE 79 

A  square-headed,  hard-working  Swede. 
THE  LAWYER  AND  THE  MINER  80 

A  lawyer  was  disbarred  back  home. 
HOMEWARD  BOUND 82 

I  am  out  upon  the  ocean. 
TO  THE  YUKON  SOUR  DOUGHS 86 

I've  done  just  as  you  told  me  to  that  night  I 

read  to  you. 
A  WISE  SWEDE  91 

Last  year,  when  the  fever  was  staking. 
BRICK  WHEATON'S  GRAVE 94 

I've  been  across  to  Oakland  Heights,  just  as  I 

promised  you. 
A  YUKON  VISION 103 

As  one  who  holds  a  sea-shell  to  his  ear. 
TO  ANDREW  CARNEGIE  104 

We're  informed  that  you're  afraid. 
RIDER  ROOSEVELT  107 

If  I  were  Rider  Roosevelt  and  Rider  Roosevelt  I. 
GIVE  US  WATER,  UNCLE  SAM 110 

What  we  want  out  here  is  water. 
THE  NYE  COUNTY  ASS  114 

The  ass  that  roams  yon  barren  hill. 
THE  PROMOTER   118 

'Twas  'way  back  in  the  early  days — a  year  ago 

last  fall. 
LEM  ALLEN  OF  CHURCHILL  123 

We  sing  of  Lem  Allen  of  Churchill. 

[8] 


THE  POET  LAUREATE  OF  ALASKA 

I  HAVE  asked  permission  of  my  friend,  pardner 
and  companion  of  the  olden,  golden  Klondike 
days,  to  write  an  introduction  to  this  revised  edi 
tion  of  his  Alaskan  poems.  He  is  not  at  all 
responsible  for  the  title  of  this  screed  or  its  con 
tents.  In  truth,  he  stoutly  protests;  for,  like  all 
true  poets,  he  is  doubtful  of  his  merits  and  shy 
of  favorable  mention.  But  I  have  bullied  him 
into  letting  me  have  my  own  way  and  shall  say 
what  I  please.  For  I  love  the  great  new  land 
of  the  ultimate  North,  the  lone  white  silence 
which  spreads  its  wings  of  mingled  light  and 
midnight  even  to  the  North  Pole;  and  whoever 
loves  this  vast  empire  and  can  picture  the  life 
there,  even  in  the  humblest  walks,  as  Dunham  has 
done,  I  must  love  also  from  my  heart  of  hearts. 

Ever  so  much  has  been  written  of  Alaska,  but 
Sam  C.  Dunham  has  not  only  loved  Alaska,  he 
has  lived  Alaska;  and  his  book  shall  live.  Only 

[9] 


THE   MEN    WHO    BLAZE   THE   TRAIL 

one  other  writer,  a  woman,  Ella  Higginson,  in 
her  great  prose  work,  it  seems  to  me,  has  really 
gone  to  the  heart  of  Alaskan  life  and — death. 
The  two  authors  and  their  works  are  as  wide 
apart  as  Sitka  and  Nome;  but  each  book  is  in 
its  way  entirely  true,  interesting  and  unique. 
I  had  climbed  the  formidable  Chilkoot  Pass 
of  ice  and  avalanches,  with  my  eighty-pound 
pack  and  nearly  sixty  years  on  my  back,  and  on 
reaching  the  Klondike  addressed  some  lines  to 
my  fellow-adventurers,  beginning: 

Have  you,  too,  banged  at  the  Chilkoot, 
1  That  storm-locked  gate  to  the  golden  door? 
Those  thunder-built  steeps  have  words  built  to  suit; 
And  whether  you  prayed  or  whether  you  swore, 
"J'wrrc    one,    where    it    seemed    that    an   oath    were    a. 

prayer — 

Seemed  that  God  couldn't  care, 
Seemed  that  God  wasn't  there. 

Sam  C.  Dunham,  a  close  friend  of  the  Com 
missioner  of  Labor  at  Washington,  who  sent 
him  out  nominally  in  the  interest  of  commerce 
and  labor,  but  really  on  a  semi-secret  mission, 
came  on  over  the  terrible  Chilkoot  Pass  soon 
after,  and  as  a  whole  mountainside  of  men  and 

I  -o] 


THE   MEN    WHO    BLAZE    THE    TRAIL 

women  had  been  swept  by  an  avalanche  down 
the  icy  steep  into  eternity,  he  felt  constrained  to 
parody  my  lines  and  give  anything  but  a  glorious 
and  romantic  coloring  to  the  condition  of  things, 
either  on  the  Klondike  or  the  way  thither.  But 
he  did  not  protest.  Even  an  avalanche,  or  all 
the  avalanches  in  the  world,  would  not  have 
stopped  or  turned  aside  that  mad  torrent  of  hu 
manity  bound  for  the  Klondike.  He  took  the 
only  wise  course — made  light  of  the  whole  most 
serious  situation. 

Dunham  had  been  wisely  chosen  at  Washing 
ton  for  this  mission  to  the  new  goldfields.  He 
had  roughed  it  in  California,  Nevada,  Utah,  and 
Colorado,  and  was  one  of  the  heroic  figures  of 
Montana,  and  he  knew  gold  mines  and  gold 
miners  well.  Almost  any  other  man,  sent  out 
from  the  social  center  of  the  national  capital, 
would  have  either  turned  back  or  at  least  sent 
out  wails  of  official  cries  for  help  and  protests 
against  the  incoming  flood  of  half-destitute  and 
wholly  desperate  humanity.  But  he  did  nothing 
of  the  sort.  This  close  friend  and  private  secre 
tary  of  Senator  Voorhees,  this  man  of  letters  at 
Washington,  sat  down  quietly  on  the  Klondike, 
took  his  beans  and  bacon  with  the  rest  of  us; 

in] 


THE    MEN    WHO    BLAZE    THE    TRAIL 

then  when  Nome  broke  out  was  on  the  firing  line 
with  dogs  and  sled  along  with  the  first.  And 
under  these  circumstances  were  his  realistic  lit 
tle  poems  written.  And  that  is  why  they  are 
so  entirely  photographic.  He  dealt  only  with 
men  and  the  men  of  the  hour.  I  also  worked, 
worked  hard  and  honestly  as  I  could ;  but  I  dealt 
with  Nature,  the  elements,  and  with  old  Indian 
traditions.  My  longest,  strongest,  and,  I  think, 
best,  poem  was  written  there.*  But  I  fell  far 
short  of  Dunham  in  directness  and  picturesque 
force.  His  work  is  clean.  Bret  Harte  and  many 
others,  in  dealing  with  these  mighty  modern  Ar 
gonauts,  have  seen  fit  to  sail  too  often  very  close 
to  forbidden  lands  in  literature.  But  Sam  C. 
Dunham's  work  is  entirely  clean.  It  is  strong 
and  the  most  truthful  poetry  I  ever  read. 

JOAQUIN   MILLER. 
THE  RIGHTS,  Fruitvale,  Cal.,  Dec.  I,  1912. 

*  "A  Song  of  Creation."     It  constitutes  the  fifth  vol 
ume  of  Mr.  Miller's  Complete  Poems. 


[12] 


On  February  fifteenth,  nineteen  thirteen,  while 
this  book  was  being  put  in  type,  Joaquin  Miller 
died  at  his  home  on  The  Rights,  a  stone's  throw 
from  where  I  am  writing  these  lines.  I  owe 
much  to  him.  My  very  first  attempt  at  verse- 
writing  was  my  "Reply"  to  his  "Comrades  of 
the  Klondike,"  and  it  was  his  generous  encour 
agement  during  our  intimate  association  at  Circle 
City  in  the  winter  of  1897-8  that  impelled  me  to 
write  the  verses  that  appear  in  the  first  section 
of  this  little  volume.  He  was  the  wisest  and 
best  and  kindliest  man  whom  I  have  ever  known 
— the  greatest  all-round  human  being  whom  it 
has  ever  been  my  privilege  to  call  "friend." 
With  all  the  love  and  veneration  that  one  man 
can  have  for  another,  I  send  this  greeting  to  him 
in  his  new  home  on  the  sunset  side  of  his  Sun 
down  Sea,  where  trail-worn  poets  rest: 

Beyond  the  moon,  beyond  the  sun, 

Beyond  the  farthest  star, 
In  the  realms  of  everlasting  peace, 

Out  where  our  loved  ones  are. 

SAM  C.  DUNHAM. 
Fruitvale,  Cal,  Feb.  28,  1913. 
[13']! 


DEDICATION 

To  the  one  who  stood  by  my  side  with  un 
daunted  soul  through  the  stress  and  strain  of 
impending  shipwreck  in  the  great  Ice  Pack  on 
Bering  Sea;  who  stood  with  me,  hand  in  hand, 
no  less  intrepidly,  on  the  Great  American  Des 
ert,  amid  the  rack  and  ruin  of  an  exploded 
mining  boom;  who  has  exemplified,  through  the 
succeeding  years  of  persistent  and  apparently 
perpetual  adversity,  the  sublimity  of  patience  and 
courage  and  helpfulness;  who  is  my  wisest  and 
keenest,  and  yet  my  kindest,  critic,  and  the  only 
"pardner"  who  has  played  fair  with  me  at  all 
times  and  in  all  situations; — to  the  bravest  and 
best  fellow  in  the  world,  my  wife,  this  little 
book  of  verse  is  affectionately  dedicated. 

SAM  C.  DUNHAM. 


'tis] 


PREFACE 

THE  verses  in  the  first  part  of  this  book  were 
originally  published  in  1901,  under  the  title  of 
"The  Goldsmith  of  Nome  and  Other  Verse." 
That  little  volume,  which  was  dedicated  "To 
the  workers  on  the  Yukon,  who,  through  the 
long,  cold  winter  of  national  neglect,  have  been 
patiently  working  while  watching  and  waiting  for 
the  ice  to  melt,"  contained  the  following  preface : 

"These  verses  were  written  while  the  author 
was  under  assignment  to  Northern  Alaska  in 
1897-8  as  a  Statistical  Expert  of  the  Depart 
ment  of  Labor,  and  in  1899-1900  as  a  Special 
Agent  of  the  Twelfth  Census.  They  are  the  free 
expression  of  some  sentiments  which  'official 
courtesy'  quite  properly  excluded  from  his  re 
ports  to  the  Commissioner  of  Labor  and  the  Di 
rector  of  the  Census.  Most  of  them  have  ap 
peared  in  various  newspapers — The  New  York 
Sun,  The  San  Francisco  Examiner,  The  Wash- 


ington  Post,  The  Illustrated  London  News,  and 
others.  They  are  presented  as  an  appeal  from 
the  tax-burdened  and  unrepresented  people  of 
Alaska  to  the  Government  at  Washington  for 
relief  from  the  wrongs  which  they  have  borne 
too  patiently  for  twenty  years.  In  1900  Alaska 
paid  into  the  Treasury  of  the  United  States  rev 
enues  averaging  $1,207.43  for  every  day  in  the 
year.  For  what?" 

The  verses  in  the  first  edition  are  reproduced 
here  practically  without  revision.  Except  for 
the  thin  sop  of  an  emasculated  legislative  assem 
bly,  the  Government  at  Washington  has  done  so 
little  for  Alaska  during  the  last  decade  that  they 
are  as  timely  now  as  when  they  were  written. 

Most  of  the  verses  in  the  second  part  origi 
nally  appeared  in  The  Tonopah  Miner  while  I 
was  editor  of  that  paper. 

SAM  C.  DUNHAM. 
FRUITVALE,  CAL.,  Dec.  10,  1912. 


[18] 


THE  MEN  WHO  BLAZE  THE  TRAIL 

Let  others  sing  of  those  who've  won 

Full  hoard  of  virgin  gold! 
I  strike  the  lyre  for  those  who've  none, 

But  yet  are  strong  and  bold — 
Who've   blazed    the    trails    through    a    pathless 

waste 

And  on  the  world's  new  chart  have  traced 
The  lines  that  lead  where  the  treasure  's  placed, 

And  all  their  secrets  told. 

They  search  the  streams  and  hillsides  rend, 

The  hidden  truth  to  learn ; 
They  trudge  where  land  and  sky-line  blend, 

And  gaze  till  eyeballs  burn ; 
They    scale   bleak   heights    whence    vast   plains 

sweep, 

And  sow  for  those  who  come  to  reap, 
While  wives  and  sweethearts  in  homeland  weep 

And  pray  for  their  return. 

[19] 


THE    MEN    WHO    BLAZE    THE    TRAIL 

Afar  in  regions  of  night-gloomed  day 

Their  slender  shadows  leap ; 
O'er  snow-crowned  peaks  they  fight  their  way 

To  where  the  Gold-gods  sleep; 
Where  the  congelations  of  the  ages  lie, 
And  athwart  the  dome  of  the  midnight  sky 
Aurora's   moon-drenched   splendors  fly, 

Onward  their  footsteps  creep. 

Out  where  Deathland,  reft  of  bush  or  tree, 

Spreads  like  a  sun-browned  lawn ; 
To  the  verge  of  the  rigid,  ice-locked  sea, 

Where  twilight  weds  the  dawn ; 
Where  a  sheenless  moon  sails  the  sunlit  night, 
Where  inert  and  dim  bides  the  Mystic  Light, 
And  the  white  swan  ends  his  vernal  flight, 
They  still  are  pressing  on. 

So  while  others  sing  of  the  chosen  few 

Who  o'er  the  Fates  prevail, 
I  will  sing  of  the  many,  staunch  and  true, 

Whose  brave  hearts  never  quail — 
Who  with  the  dauntless  spirit  of  pioneers 
A  State  are  building  for  the  coming  years, 
Their  sole  reward  their  loved  ones'  tears — 

The  men  who  blaze  the  trail ! 

[20] 


THE   MEN    WHO    BLAZE    THE    TRAIL 


ALASKA  TO  UNCLE   SAM 

Sitting  on  my  greatest  glacier, 

With  my  feet  in  Bering  Sea, 
I  am  thinking,  cold  and  lonely, 

Of  the  way  you've  treated  me. 
Three-and-thirty  years  of  silence! 

Through  ten  thousand  sleepless  nights 
I've  been  praying  for  your  coming — 

For  the  dawn  of  civil  rights. 

When  you  took  me,  young  and  trusting, 

From  the  growling  Russian  bear, 
Loud  you  swore  before  the  nations 

I  should  have  the  Eagle's  care. 
Never  yet  has  wing  of  eagle 

Cast  a  shadow  on  my  peaks, 
But  I've  watched  the  flight  of  buzzards 

And  I've  felt  their  busy  beaks. 

Your  imported  cross-roads  statesmen 
(What  a  motley,  sordid  train!) 

Come  with  laws  conceived  in  closets — 
Made  for  loot  and  private  gain! 

[21] 


THE    MEN    WHO    BLAZE   THE    TRAIL 

These  the  best  that  you  can  furnish? 

Then  God  help  the  heathen  folk 
You  have  rescued  from  the  burden 

Of  the  rotting  Spanish  yoke ! 

I'm  a  full-grown,  proud-souled  woman, 

And  I'm  getting  tired  and  sick — 
Wearing  all  the  cast-off  garments 

Of  your  body  politic. 
If  you'll  give  me  your  permission, 

I  will  make  some  wholesome  laws 
That  will  suit  my  hard  conditions 

And  promote  your  country's  cause. 

By  the  latest  mail  you  sent  me 

(Nearly  all  your  mails  are  late!) 
Comes  the  news  that  you've  gone  roving 

In  your  proud  old  Ship  of  State — 
Dreaming  with  a  sunburnt  siren 

By  the  sultry  southern  seas, 
Where  the  songs  of  your  enchantress 

Swoon  upon  the  scented  breeze. 

You  are  blind  with  lust  of  conquest 
And  desire  for  foreign  trade, 

Or  you'd  see  the  half-drawn  dagger, 
With   its   brightly-burnished   blade, 

[22] 


THE   MEN    WHO    BLAZE    THE    TRAIL 

Sticking  in  the  loosened  girdle 
Of  the  black  brute  by  your  side — 

If  you  treat  her  as  I'm  treated 

She  will  stick  it  through  your  hide. 

Curb  your  taste  for  sun-killed  countries, 

Where  the  natives  loaf  and  shirk; 
Come  to  richer  northern  regions, 

Where  the  people  think  and  work. 
If  you  want  a  part  of  Asia 

When  the  Chinamen  are  killed, 
Run  a  railroad  up  to  Bering — 

I  will  show  you  where  to  build. 

Come  next  spring  and  count  my  treasures 

And  don't  stop  at  Glacier  Bay, 
Like  the  many  high  commissions 

You  have  started  up  this  way. 
You  will  see  my  wooded  mountains, 

With  their  citadels  of  snow 
Gleaming  in  the  purple  distance 

Through  the  pearl-hued  alpen-glow. 

Standing  on  my  flower-strewn  hillsides, 
Where  my  mighty  rivers  meet, 

Gazing  o'er  my  verdant  valleys, 
Spreading  seaward  from  your  feet, 

[23] 


THE    MEN    WHO    BLAZE    THE    TRAIL 

You  will  see  the  sunlit  splendors 
Of  my  moonless  midnight  skies, 

Gilded  with  a  light  supernal 

Shining  straight  from  Paradise. 

If  you  stay  till  Hoary  Winter 

Has  entombed  the  silent  land, 
You  will  read  celestial  sermons, 

Written  by  the  Master's  hand 
On  the  azure  walls  of  heaven, 

Where  Aurora's  tinted  light 
Weirdly  flits  like  summer  lightning 

All  the  ghostly  Arctic  night. 

When  you  come  I'll  show  you  wonders 

That  will  cause  you  great  surprise, 
And  if  gold  is  what  you're  seeking 

You  will  open  wide  your  eyes. 
Drive  away  your  Wall  street  schemers, 

With  their  coupons  and  their  nerve — 
Then  while  you  extend  your  commerce 

I'll  expand  your  gold  reserve. 

You  will  find  a  magic  city 
On  the  shore  of  Bering  Strait 

Which  shall  be  for  you  a  station 
To  unload  your  Arctic  freight, 

[24] 


THE    MEN    WHO    BLAZE    THE    TRAIL 

Where  the  gold  of  Humboldt's  vision 

Has  for  countless  ages  lain, 
Waiting  for  the  hand  of  labor 

And  the  Saxon's  tireless  brain. 

You  shall  have  a  cool  vacation, 

Hunting  for  the  great  white  bear, 
And  you'll  soon  forget  Manila 

And  the  trouble  you've  had  there; 
For  as  in  the  morn  of  nations 

Every  highway  led  to  Rome, 
You  and  all  your  restless  rivals 

Will  be  sailing  straight  to  Nome. 

You  will  wake  a  sleeping  empire, 
Stretching  southward  from  the  Pole 

To  the  headlands  where  the  waters 
Of  your  Western  ocean  roll. 

Then  will  rise  a  mighty  people 
From  the  travail  of  the  years, 

Whom  with  pride  you'll  call  your  children- 
Offspring  of  my  pioneers. 


25] 


THE    MEN    WHO    BLAZE    THE    TRAIL 


COMRADES  OF  THE  KLONDIKE 


Have  you,  too,  banged  at  the  Chilkoot, 
That  storm-locked  gate  to  the  golden  door? 
Those  thunder-built  steeps  have  words  built  to 

suit, 

And  whether  you  prayed  or  whether  you  swore, 
'T  were  one,  where  it  seemed  that  an  oath  were 

a  prayer — 

Seemed  that  God  couldn't  care, 
Seemed  that  God  wasn't  there! 


II 

Have  you,  too,  climbed  to  the  Klondike? 
Hast  talked  as  a  friend  to  the  five-horned  stars  ? 
With  muckluc  shoon  and  with  talspike 
Hast  bared  gray  head  to  the  golden  bars, 
Those  heaven-built  bars  where  Morning  is  born  ? 
Hast  drunk  with  Maiden  Morn 
From  Klondike's  golden  horn? 


THE   MEN    WHO    BLAZE    THE    TRAIL 

III 

Hast  read,  low-voiced,  by  the  Northlights 
Such  sermons  as  never  men  say? 
Hast  sat  and  sat  with  the  Midnights, 
That  sit  and  that  sit  all  day? 
Hast  heard  the  iceberg's  boom  on  boom? 
Hast  heard  the  silence,  the  room? 
The  glory  of  God,  the  gloom? 

IV 

Then  come  to  my  sunland,  my  soldier-1 — 
Aye,  come  to  my  heart,  and  to  stay! 
For  better  crusader  or  bolder 
Bared  never  his  breast  to  the  fray, 
And  whether  you  prayed  or  you  cursed, 
You  dared  the  best — and  the  worst — 
That  ever  brave  man  durst. 

JOAQUIN  MILLER. 

A   REPLY 

I 

I,  too,  have  banged  at  the  Chilkoot ; 
I  have  scaled  her  storm-torn  height 
And  slid  down  her  trail  with  dizzy  shoot 
That  produced  a  Northern  Light; 

[27] 


THE    MEN    WHO    BLAZE    THE    TRAIL 

And  I  ottered  a  curse-laden  prayer — 
Of  course  God  didn't  care. 
For  only  the  Devil  was  there. 

II 

I,  too,  have  climbed  to  the  Klondike, 
Through  bog  and  muck  and  roots. 
Till  my  legs  were  as  stiff  as  thy  talspike 
And  tbe  water  filled  both  of  my  boots ; 
Hare  drank  from  golden  born 
With  nuidfns,  night  to  morn — 
I  acknowledge  the  corn. 

Ill 

Have  heard,  loud-voiced,  by  the  Xorthlights 
Such  oaths  as  only  men  say : 
Have  lain  awake  through  the  Midnights 
And  fought  mosquitoes  all  day ; 
Cursed  Klondike's— not  the  iceberg's— boom, 
And  paid  an  ounce  for  a  room, 
Which  filled  my  soul  with  gloom. 

IV 

My  friend.  111  come  to  thy  sunland 
As  soon  as  this  long  winter  *s  o'er, 
And  IT1  drink  to  thy  health  in  the  one  land 
Whither  thy  thoughts  ever  soar; 
[28] 


THE    MEN    WHO    BLAZE    THE    TRAIL 

And  though  this  drought  be  the  worst 
That  ever  humanity  cursed, 
At  last  we'll  banish  our  thirst. 

ARCTIC  LIGHTNING 

Far  out  where  the  sullen  darkness 

Palls  the  silent,  ice-chained  sea, 
Spring,  low-arched,  the  fragile  Northlights 

O'er  the  realm  of  mystery ; 
From  their  haunts  beneath  the  crescent, 

Where  the  murky  shadows  lie, 
Come  Aurora's  pale  magicians 

With  their  festoons  for  the  sky. 
And   while   the   Color   Sergeant  musters 

His  Immortal  Seven 
To  hang  their  banners  from  the  dome 

And  drape  the  walls  of  heaven. 
Straight  he  hurls  his  shafts  of  silver 

High  up  in  the  star-gemmed  blue. 
\Yhere  the  wraiths  of  light,  soft-tinted 

And  of  swiftly-changing-  hue. 
Through   the   long   and   ghostly   vigils 

Of  the  voiceless  Arctic  night 
Weirdly  gleam  and   faintly   whisper 

As  they  tremble  out  of  sight. 

[29] 


THE   MEN    WHO   BLAZE   THE   TRAIL 

TO  JOAQUIX  MILLER 
Written  at  CkSkoot  Pass 

Here  at  the  Gate  of  die  Arctic, 

Facing  the  sflent  lan<L 
Backward  I  reach  through  the  distance 

•And  gi^afj  jpotir  heart-hot  hand. 
If  oar  earthly  trails  ne'er  cross  again, 

I TI   iiitcl   you   farther  west. 
On  the  sunset  side  of  your  Sundown  Sea, 

Where  trail-worn  poets  rest. 


[30] 


THE    MEN"    WHO    BLAZE    THE  TRAIL 


JUST  BACK  FROM   DAWSON 

I  Ve  just  gat  back  from  Dxwsoo,  where  the  Arc- 

tic 
An*  the  swiftly- 

¥1 


•-   :-t 


of 
So  that  just  a 

gets; 

An'  the  ri 


.'_^ 


^ 


THE    MEN    WHO    BLAZE    THE    TRAIL 

Where  'long  about  the  last  of  June  the  sun  again 
surprises 

The  new-arrived  inhabitants,  an'  while  it's  settin' 
rises ; 

Where  the  price  of  pay-streak  bacon  is  two  dol 
lars  for  a  pound, 

An'  to  treat  your  friends  at  Spencer's  costs  an 
ounce  or  two  a  round, 

An'  they  sell  Seattle  cider,  in  the  guise  of  dry 
shampain, 

Which  institoots  a  lingerin'  drunk  that's  very  far 
from  plain. 


I've  just  returned  from  Dawson,  where  the 
charge  for  anteek  eggs 

Makes  considerable  difference  in  length  of  buy 
ers'  legs; 

Where  our  helpful  friends  in  Washington,  mis 
led  by  bad  advice, 

Concluded  they  could  operate  steam  enjins  on 
the  ice, 

An'  are  tryin'  now  the  reindeer,  a-feedin'  them 
on  moss, 

But  wherever  they've  been  tried  so  far  there's 
been  a  heavy  loss, 

[32] 


THE    MEN    WHO    BLAZE    THE    TRAIL 

While  all  the  old  trail-breakers  to  their  pet  tra 
ditions  cling 

An'  still  maintain  with  vehemence — "The  dog's 
the  proper  thing." 

I've  just  reached  here  from  Dawson,  where  I 
seen  Frank  Slavin  spar, 

An'  also  seen  his  victim  a-revivin'  at  the  bar 

While  Frank  shook  hands  with  all  his  friends 
an'  loudly  did  declare 

That  he  could  lick  Fitzsimmons,  too,  if  he  was 
only  there; 

An'  seen  Oklahoma  Wilson  attempt  to  instigate 

A  coop  de  Colt,  but  ere  his  gun  became  articu 
late 

They  yanked  him  to  the  barracks  in  a  way  he 
won't  forget, 

An'  to  cultivate  his  harmlessness  they're  boardin' 
him  there  yet. 

I've  just  come  out  from  Dawson,  where  every 
body's  health 

Is  bein'  undermined  an'  ruined  in  a  wild-eyed 
rush  for  wealth, 

An'  a  score  or  so  of  schemers,  on  evil  projects 
bent, 

Are  robbin'  the  community  to  a  terrible  extent; 

[33] 


THE    MEN    WHO    BLAZE    THE    TRAIL 

Where  the  men  who  dig  the  treasure  are  strong 

an'  brave  an'  bold, 
Wrenchin'    from   the   glacier's   bowels   stockin's 

full  of  yellow  gold, 
While  the  transportation  pirates  slyly  syndicate 

their  gall 
With  the  criminal  intention  of  absorbin'  of  it  all. 


I've  just  escaped  from  Dawson,  where  the  ice 

grows  ten  feet  thick, 
An'  doods  who  like  their  baths  served  cold  don't 

take  'em  in  a  crick; 
Where  no  one,  be  he  rich  or  poor,  is  ever  dubbed 

a  "hero" 
Till  he  has  done  his  hundred  miles  at  60  less 

than  zero; 
Where  men  chop  water  out  in  chunks  an'  pile  it 

on  the  banks, 

An'  make  their  hot-air  heaters  out  of  empty  coal- 
oil  tanks, 
An'  read  back-number  papers  by  the  unobtrusive 

rays 
Of  tallow-dips  an'  davy  lamps — dim   lights  of 

other  days. 

[34] 


THE   MEN   WHO    BLAZE   THE    TRAIL 

I've  just  emerged  from  Dawson,  a  bad  financial 

wreck, 
For  instead  of  gettin'  dust  galore,  I  got  it  in 

the  neck, 
Where  Adam  got  the  apple  in  that  episode  with 

Eve, 
Which  led  to  woe   an'   stern   decree  that  they 

would  have  to  leave, 

Like  thirty  thousand  other  jays,  by  golden  vi 
sions  lured, 
Who  climbed   the  trails,   through  hardships   to 

which  they  weren't  inured, 
To  find  that  them  Dominion  knaves,  by  dastardly 

deceits, 
Had  concessioned  everything  in  sight  an'  even 

leased  the  streets. 


[35] 


THE    MEN    WHO    BLAZE    THE    TRAIL 


SENCE   I   COME   BACK   FROM 
DAWSON 

Sence  I  come  back  from  Dawson  to  these  old 
familiar  scenes, 

I've  read  the  yaller  journals  an'  the  lo-cent  mag 
azines, 

An'  to  sort  o'  classify  events  an'  find  out  what 
occurred 

While  I  was  hibernatin'  where  the  light  of  God 
was  blurred, 

I've  been  searchin'  through  the  columns  of  the 
daily  picture-press, 

To  see  if  I  could  ascertain,  or  formulate  a  guess, 

Why  the  scribblers  who  last  autumn  so  artisti 
cally  lied 

'Bout  the  riches  of  the  Klondike  concluded  to 
subside. 

Then  every  trail  was  occupied  by  journalistic 
beats 

Who  represented  (with  slim  cards)  all  saffron- 
tinted  sheets 

[36] 


THE    MEN    WHO    BLAZE    THE    TRAIL 

From  Seattle  to  Savannah  an'  from  Bangor  to 
Duluth, 

But  nary  one  of  them  was  there  to  represent  the 
truth. 

They  stumbled  up  the  Chilkoot  an'  they  loafed 
along  the  lakes, 

An'  when  not  a-photographin'  things  or  writin' 
up  their  fakes, 

Imbibed  raw  rum  from  Hudson  Bay,  an'  dressed 
in  goffin'  suits, 

Stood  'round  an'  asked  old-timers  'bout  the  short 
est  Klondike  roots. 


Now  I've  gathered  from  my  readin'  that  the 
reason  why  they  quit 

Writin'  lies  about  the  Klondike  was,  as  lawyers 
say,  to-wit: 

Havin'  placed  us  in  cold  storage  an'  done  all 
the  harm  they  could, 

They  felt  a  awful  cravin'  for  a  brand  of  booze 
that's  good, 

An'  left  at  once  to  sponge  it,  an'  unable  to  re 
frain 

From  causin'  people  trouble,  they  arranged  a 
war  with  Spain, 

[37] 


THE    MEN    WHO    BLAZE    THE    TRAIL 

An'  to  properly  conduct  the  same,  rushed  bravely 
to  the  front 

An'  led  all  the  gallant  charges  an'  bore  the  bat 
tle's  brunt. 

Now,  while  us  Klondike  refugees  most  greevusly 

deplore 
The  mournful  fact  so  few  of  them  passed  to  the 

other  shore, 
Our  grief   is   curtailed   by   the   thought   which 

punctuates  our  sobs, 
That  some  of  them  who  were  not  killed  have 

lately  lost  their  jobs. 
An'  sence  my  feelin's  is  aroused,   some  words 

I've  got  to  say 
About    the    highly    lucrative    but    lowly    sinful 

way 
The  experts  an'  perfessers  told  the  things  they 

didn't  know 
(A-settin'  in  warm   rooms  at  home)   about  the 

realm  of  snow. 

Of  all  their  stories  I  have  read,  the  worst  about 

that  far  land 
Was  written  by  a  man  whose  brow  has  long 

worn   Fiction's  garland, 

[38] 


THE   MEN   WHO    BLAZE   THE   TRAIL 

Who  in  the  "Klondike  Number"  of  a  well- 
known  magazine 

Told  of  the  sylvan  beauties  of  some  trails  he'd 
never  seen, 

With  purlin'  brooks  an'  wild  delights  an'  picnics 
everywhere 

(Things  that  exist  in  poets'  dreams,  but  don't 
exist  up  there)  ; 

Then  followed  in  the  steps  of  them  he'd  so 
cruelly  misled, 

To  write  about  the  scenery  an'  enumerate  the 
dead. 


Perhaps  't  will  seem  that  I've  assumed  a  gay  an' 

flippant  air. 
But  while  I'm  settin'  here  to-night  a  ghost  stands 

by  my  chair. 
Again  I  see  a  famished  form  stretched  'neath  a 

sombre  sky ; 
Again  I  fold  the  shriveled  hands  an'  close  the 

death-glazed  eye ; 
I  see  the  horrors  Falsehood  wrought,  an'  hear 

again  the  wail 
Of  its  victim  as  he  perished  on  a  panoramic 

trail, 

[39] 


THE    MEN*    WHO    BLAZE    THE    TRAIL 

\Yhere  his  bleached  an'  badly-scattered  bones  is 

all  that's  left  to  tell 
How  he  battled  with  the  terrors  of  a  thousand 

miles  of  hell. 

Xow,  as  I  ain't  no  statesman.  I  can't  figger  what 
well  gain 

Through  our  unexpected  legacy  of  trouble  from 
old  Spain; 

But  as  a  unkissed  hero  from  the  barren  Yukon 
Flats, 

I  modestly  petition  our  distinguished  diplomats : 

In  your  God-directed  efforts  to  emancipate  man 
kind, 

Don't  forget  your  helpless  brothers  in  your  Arc 
tic  wilds  confined, 

But  in  your  swoop  for  liberty,  to  right  an'  justice 
true, 

Extend  a  helpin'  hand  to  them — annex  Alaska, 
too. 


[40] 


THE    MEN    WHO    BLAZE    THE    TRAIL 


I'M  GOIX'  BACK  TO  DAWSON 

I'm  goin'  back  to  Dawson,  an*  suppose  I  must 

explain 
How  I  generated  nerve  enough  to  hit  that  trail 

again. 
I've  tramped  this  land  from  east  to  west  anf  tried 

it  north  an'  south, 
An'  found  the  people  short  on  heart  but  very 

long  on  mouth; 
I've   wandered    through   the    byways  an*    I've 

mingled  with  the  crowds, 
An'  felt  a  dam  sight  lonesomer  than  when  above 

the  clouds 
I  stood  alone  "mid  ghostly  isles  that  pierced  a 

spectral  sea 
An'  cried  in  vain  to  far-off  stars  that  couldn't 

answer  me. 

I  met  a  great  philanthropist,  whose  wealth  they 

say  was  ground 
From   the   labor  of   a   thousand   serfs — whose 

fame's  a-spreadin'  round 

[41] 


THE    MEN    WHO    BLAZE    THE    TRAIL 

Because  he  built  a  edifice  an'  filled  it   full  of 

books 
To  learn  the  poor   submission  to  incorporated 

crooks, 
An'  seen  him  stop  a  barefoot  kid  with  papers  in 

the  street 
An'  hand  to  him  a  nickel  for  a  flamin'  one-cent 

sheet, 
Then  sneak  behind  him   for  a  block,  a-keepin' 

him  in  range, 
To  nab  the  limpin'  little  cuss  if  he  tried  to  swipe 

the  change. 


An'  I  rambled  through  the  alleys  of  a  big  de 
partment  store, 

Admirin'  of  the  handsome  gents  which  walk 
along  the  floor 

A-tellin'  ladies  where  to  go  to  get  the  cheapest 
things — 

Where  "Cash!"  appears  to  be  the  song  that 
everybody  sings, 

An'  somethin'  like  five  hundred  girls  that  ought 
to  be  at  school 

Lean  wearily  against  the  shelves  because  there's 
nary  stool — 

[42] 


THE    MEN    WHO    BLAZE    THE    TRAIL 

An'  I'm  told  the  chap  who  owns  the  claim  has 

the  immortal  nerve 
To  pay  but  half  a  case  a  day  to  them  that  stand 

an'  serve. 

I'm  also  told  that  this  here  man  exists  in  princely 

style 
In  marble  halls  set  on  a  hill  that  slopes  away  a 

mile, 
An'  to  stupefy  his  conscience  he's  donated  from 

his  wad 
Some  money  to  the  heathens  an'  has  built  a  house 

for  God; 
An'  drowsin'  in  his  temple  on  a  recent  Sabbath 

morn, 
I  seen  again  the  faces  of  them  girls  so  pale  an' 

lorn, 
An'  wondered  if  the  cuss  was  bankin'  on  the 

heathens  he  had  saved 
For  a  discount  up  in  heaven  on  the  white  folks 

he'd  enslaved. 

Then  I  roused  up  from  my  dreamin'  that  the 
organ  had  produced 

An'  thought  about  the  Yukon  boys  I've  so  shame 
fully  traduced, 

.143] 


THE    MEN*    WHO    BLAZE    THE    TRAIL 

An'  seen  again  quite  clearly,  in  no  music-painted 
dream. 

Two  snow-blind  men  a-stumblin'  'hind  a  limpin' 
Si  wash  team — 

Old  Cooley  an'  his  pardner  Jo,  who  never  go  to 
church, 

A-strugglin'  back  to  Circle  from  their  long  trip 
out  on  Birch 

To  feed  the  starvin'  Tananas — a  service  so  high- 
priced 

They'll  not  collect  their  wages  till  they  hand 
their  bills  to  Christ. 


In  trampin'  through  this  high-toned  land  I'm 
painfully  surprised 

To  learn  that  butchers  so  refined  an'  highly  civ 
ilized 

That  they'd  disdain  to  occupy  a  mansion  built  of 
logs 

Provide  our  soldiers  beef  an'  things  I  wouldn't 
feed  my  dogs; 

Which  makes  me  want  to  get  back  where  the 
canned  goods  ain't  so  bad 

An'  the  girls  you  meet  on  every  hand  ain't  pale- 
faced,  thin,  an'  sad — 

[44] 


THE    MEN    WHO    BLAZE    THE    TRAIL 

Where   the  milk    of   human    kindness   ain't    so 

rigidly  congealed 
That  we'd  let  'em  wander  from  the  trail  because 

they  wasn't  heeled. 

I  want  to  hear  the  soothin'  tones  of  Bates's  old 

guitar 
As  he  sings  about  "The  Fisher  Maiden"  at  "The 

Polar  Star," 
An'  watch  Brick  Wheaton  rassle  with  his  yaller 

mandolin 
As  he  chants  the  charms  of  Injun  hootch  an' 

other  kinds  of  sin; 
I  want  to  hear  them  songs  once  more  an'  want 

to  see  my  friends 
Where   the    swiftly-rushin'    Klondike    with    the 

mighty  Yukon  blends, 
An'   they  size  a  feller-sinner   by  his   heart   an' 

what  he  knows 
An'  never  ask  his  Southern  name  or  criticise  his 

clo's. 

I  want  to  see  Aurora — not  the  one  that  greets 

the  day, 
But  her  weak  an'  pallid  namesake — try  to  drive 

the  night  away, 

[45] 


THE    MEN    WHO    BLAZE    THE    TRAIL 

An'  watch  her  throw  her  shafts  of  silver  far  up 

in  the  sky, 
While  her  color-bearers  tint  'em  with  an  always- 

changin'  dye, 
An'  from  the  walls  of  heaven  all  their  fragile 

banners  swing 
Till  the  air's  alive  with  whispers  like  the  swishin' 

of  a  wing, 
An'  from  the  zenith  flash  great  lights  across  the 

interspace 
Till  you  feel  you're  in  God's  presence  an'  can 

almost  see  His  face. 


So  I'm  goin'  back  to  Dawson,  an'  I'll  float  along 

that  way 
When  the  ice  moves  down  the  river,  'long  about 

the  last  of  May, 
When  the  birds  an'  flowers  are  flirtin'  an'  the 

white  clouds  sail  the  blue — 
An'  the  energetic  insecks  get  in  their  fine  work 

too. 
I  know  now  what  I  didn't  when  I  went  up  there 

before, 
That  it  is  soshul  suicide  to  linger  'round  here 

poor, 

[46] 


THE   MEN   WHO   BLAZE   THE   TRAIL 

For  though  the  Arctic  winters  there  are  long  an' 

dark  an'  cold, 
They're  warmer  than  my  welcome  when  they 

found  I  brought  no  gold. 


[47] 


THE    MEN    WHO    BLAZE    THE    TRAIL 


A   FATAL  GIFT* 

When  a  man  gets  along  to  about  forty-two, 
He's  apt  to  sit  down  and  let  pass  in  review 
The  scenes  of  his  past,  and  he's  likely  to  make 
An  effort  to  spot  the  fatal  mistake 
Which    changed    the    whole    course    of   human 

events 
With  regards  to  his  hopes  and  honest  intents. 

One  makes  his  mistake  in  the  morning  of  life, 
In  failing  to  choose  or  in  choosing  a  wife; 
Another  takes  a  drink  and  the  evil  is  done, 
And  Dishonor  completes  what  the  Devil  begun, 
While  many  evade  Life's  pitfalls  and  snares 
Till  Old  Time  has  garnered  or  silvered  their 
hairs. 

But  mine  was  the  earliest  failure  on  earth, 
For  I  made  my  mistake  at  the  hour  of  birth 

*  Read  at  a  dinner  given  to  the  author  at  St.  Michael, 
Alaska,  on  his  forty-fifth  birthday,  February  22,  1900. 

[48] 


THE    MEN    WHO    BLAZE   THE    TRAIL 

By  making  my  debut,  an  undressed  kid, 
The  same  day  of  the  month  that  Washington  did, 
And  I  look  back  now  and  see  quite  plain 
Why  all  of  my  efforts  have  been  in  vain. 

You've  heard  about  George  and  his  cute  little  ax 
And  his  weakness  for  sticking  too  close  to  the 

facts. 

My  very  first  effort  to  emulate  him 
Gave  a  shock  to  my  system  that  made  my  head 

swim, 

For  when  I  confessed  to  my  volatile  dad 
I  got  the  worst  licking  I  ever  have  had. 

In  spite  of  that  set-back  I've  kept  up  the  fight 
'Gainst  Error  and  Falsehood,  for  Truth  and  the 

Right; 

But  always  through  life  I've  felt  the  restraint 
Of    the   gift   handed    down    by    my    Natal-day 

Saint, 

And  I'm  forced  to  admit  that  Virtue's  reward 
Is  the  only  return  I  can  thus  far  record. 

No  matter  what  pathway  I've  chosen  in  life, 
In  city  or  country  or  political  strife, 

[49] 


THE    MEN    WHO    BLAZE    THE    TRAIL 

On  the  crest  of  a  mountain  or  the  marge  of  a 

lake, 

There  stood  close  beside  me  my  fatal  mistake, 
And  wherever  my  lofty  ambition  has  led 
I've   seen  my  hopes  wither,   my  projects   drop 

dead. 

But   here    in    the    Arctic,    where    Falsehood    is 

tough, 

The  pathway  of  Truth  is  peculiarly  rough, 
And  as  I  gaze  out  o'er  the  white  frozen  sea 
I  feel  all  too  keenly  it's  no  place  for  me, 
For  no  one  who  sticks  to  George  W.'s  creed 
Can  ever  expect  in  this  land  to  succeed. 


[50] 


THE   MEN   WHO    BLAZE   THE   TRAIL 


THE  LAMENT  OF  THE  OLD  SOUR 
DOUGH 

I've  trudged  and  I've  starved  and  I've  frozen 

All  over  this  white  barren  land — 
Where    the    sea    stretches    straight,    white    and 

silent, 

Where  the  timberless  white  mountains  stand — 
From  the  white  peaks  that  gleam  in  the  moon 
light, 

Like  a  garment  that  graces  a  soul, 
To  the  last  white  sweep  of  the  prairies, 

Where   the  black   shadows  brood   round   the 
Pole. 

(Now,  pray  don't  presume  from  this  prelude 

That  a  flame  of  poetical  fire 
Is  to  burst  from  my  brain  like  a  beacon, 

For  I've  only  been  tuning  my  lyre 
To  the  low,  sad  voice  of  a  singer 

Who's  inspired  to  sing  you  some  facts 
About  the  improvements  in  staking 

And  the  men  who  mine  with  an  ax.) 


THE    MEN'    WHO    BLAZE    THE    TRAIL 

I've  panned  from  Peru  to  Point  Barrow, 

But  I  never  located  a  claim 
Till  I'd  fully  persuaded  my  conscience 

That  pay  dirt  pervaded  the  same; 
And  this  is  the  source  of  my  sorrow, 

As  you  will  be  forced  to  agree 
When  you  learn  how  relentless  Misfortune 

Has  dumped  all  her  tailings  on  me. 

I  worked  with  my  pardner  all  summer, 

Cross-cutting  a  cussed  cold  creek, 
Which  we  never  once  thought  of  locating 

Unless  we  located  the  streak; 
And  when  at  the  close  of  the  season 

We  discovered  the  creek  was  a  fake, 
We  also  discovered  the  region 

Had  nothing  left  in  it  to  stake. 

We  traversed  the  toe-twisting  tundra, 

Where  reindeer  root  round  for  their  feed, 
And  the  hungry  Laplanders  who  herd  them 

Devour  them  before  they  can  breed. 
Here  it  seemed  that  good  claims  might  be  plenty, 

And  we  thought  we  would   stake  one — per 
haps; 
But  we  found  to  our  grief  that  the  gulches 

Were  staked  in  the  name  of  the  Lapps. 

[52] 


THE    MEN    WHO    BLAZE    THE    TRAIL 

A  hundred  long  leagues  to  the  northward, 

Through  the  untrodden,  sun-burnished  snow, 
We  struggled,  half  blind  and  half  famished, 

To  the  sea  where  the  staunch  whalers  go. 
We  found  there  broad  beaches  of  ruby 

And  mountains  with  placers  and  leads, 
But  all  save  the  sky  was  pre-empted 

By  salt-water  sailors  and  Swedes. 

Then  we  climbed  the  cold  creeks  near  a  mission 

That  is  run  by  an  agent  of  God, 
Who  trades  Bibles  and  prayer-books  to  heathen 

For  ivory,  sealskins  and  cod. 
At  last  we  were  sure  we  had  struck  it, 

But  alas !  for  our  hope  of  reward — 
The  landscape  from  sea-beach  to  sky-line 

Was  staked  in  the  name  of  the  Lord! 

We're  too  slow  for  the  new  breed  of  miners, 

Embracing  all  classes  of  men, 
Who  locate  by  power  of  attorney 

And  prospect  their  claims  with  a  pen — 
Who  do  all  of  their  fine  work  through  agents 

And  loaf  around  town  with  the  sports, 
On  intimate  terms  with  the  lawyers, 

On  similar  terms  with  the  courts. 

[53] 


THE   MEN    WHO    BLAZE    THE    TRAIL 

We're  scared  to  submission  and  silence 

By  the  men  the  Government  sends 
To  force  us  to  keep  law  and  order, 

While  they  keep  claims  for  their  friends, 
And  collect  in  an  indirect  manner 

An  exceedingly  burdensome  tax, 
Assumed  for  a  time  by  the  traders 

And  then  transferred  to  our  backs. 

We  had  some  hard  knocks  on  the  Klondike 

From  the  Cub-lion's  unpadded  paws, 
And  suffered  some  shocks  from  high  license 

And  other  immutable  laws; 
But  they  robbed  us  by  regular  schedule, 

So  we  knew  just  what  to  expect, 
While  at  Nome  we're  scheduled  to  struggle 

Until  we're  financially  wrecked. 

I'm  sick  of  the  scream  of  the  Eagle 

And  laws  of  dishonest  design, 
And  I'm  going  in  search  of  a  country 

Where  a  miner  can  locate  a  mine ; 
So  when  I  have  rustled  an  outfit 

These  places  will  know  me  no  more, 
For  I'll  try  my  luck  with  the  Russians 

On  the  bleak  Siberian  shore. 

[54] 


THE    MEN    WHO    BLAZE    THE    TRAIL 


THE  GOLDSMITH  OF  NOME 

I 

I  am  resting  by  my  anvil,* 

And  my  forge  is  growing  cold ; 
I  have  ceased  my  age-long  labors, 

I    have    beaten    out    my    gold; 
I  have  scattered  wide  my  treasures 

On  the  superficial  sands, 
Where  they  lie  unlocked  and  waiting 

For  the  work  of  human  hands. 

Where  my  far-spread  barren  beaches 

Lay  untrod  through  countless  years, 
I  can  see  the  meager  camp-fires 

Of  the  hardy  pioneers 
Who  have  learned  anew  my  secret 

From  the  unsecretive  sands, 
And  have  sent  my  golden  message 

To  the  workers  in  all  lands. 

*  The  name  of  the  richest  creek  in  the  Nome  district 
(Anvil)  was  suggested  by  a  large  rock  on  the  top  of  a 
mountain,  about  five  miles  from  the  beach ;  from  many 
points  of  view  this  rock  resembles  a  blacksmith's  anvil. 

[55] 


THE    MEN    WHO    BLAZE    THE    TRAIL 

Gazing  southward  through  the  valleys 

Where  the  ice-chained  rivers  sleep 
'Neath  their  wide-flung  ghostly  mantles 

And  the  Arctic  nightwinds  sweep, 
I  see  men  of  dauntless  spirit — 

Men  whose  brave  hearts  never  quail — 
Struggling  northward  o'er  wild  barrens, 

Breaking  for  the  world  a  trail. 

Looking  out  across  the  waters 

Stretching  sunward  to  the  Sound, 
I  can  see  the  sons  of  labor 

Boarding  vessels  hitherbound ; 
I  can  hear  the  great  crowds  cheering 

On  the  fast-receding  piers, 
Where  sad  mothers  clasp  their  children 

And  gaze  seaward  through  their  tears. 

I  can  see  my  people  coming, 

Sailing  over  many  seas ; 
I  can  see  the  white  sails  swelling 

As  they  catch  the  southern  breeze; 
I  can  see  the  black  smoke  trailing 

From  the  sloping  steamer-stacks, 
Throwing  swiftly-circling  shadows 

Over  foamy,  swirling  tracks. 

[56] 


THE    MEN    WHO    BLAZE    THE    TRAIL 

From  the  swarming,  stifling  cities, 

Where  wan  children  gasp  for  breath; 
From  the  shadeless,  unploughed  prairies, 

Where  grim  cyclones  scatter  death; 
From  the  old  world's  worked-out  placer 

And   the   rock-choked  mountain  gorge, 
They  are  coming  by  the  thousands 

For  the  product  of  my  forge. 


II 


Here  I  wrought  throughout  the  ages, 

By  the  silent,  tideless  sea, 
Beating  out  my  golden  ingots 

For  the  empire  yet  to  be — 
Watched  the  mighty  strife  of  Nature, 

Heard  the  glacial  millstones  grind, 
Marked  the  rise  and  fall  of  nations, 

Timed  the  progress  of  mankind. 

While  the  seven-hued  Arctic  lightning 
Faintly  flashes  through  the  night, 

Tinting  all  the  ghostly  landscape 
With  its  soft,  elusive  light, 

[57] 


THE   MEN   WHO    BLAZE   THE   TRAIL 

I  am  dreaming  of  the  glory 

Of  the  prehistoric  race 
Which  inhabited  these  valleys 

When  the  first  stampede  took  place. 

When  I  entered  on  my  labors 

Stately  palm  trees  weirdly  threw 
Slender  shadows  in  the  moonlight, 

Where  the  sea  slept  warm  and  blue; 
In  the  dark  primeval  forest, 

Dank  beneath  a  tropic  sun, 
Roamed  wild  beasts  of  form  colossal, 

Greater  than  the  mastodon. 

Birds  of  brilliant  sunlit  plumage 

Caroled  in  the  fronded  trees, 
And  their  songs  were  wafted  seaward 

On  the  balmy  summer  breeze; 
Fragrant  flowers  exhaled  their  odors, 

And  the  distant  hazy  hills 
Lulled  the  fruitful  vales  and  uplands 

With  the  music  of  their  rills. 

From  the  plain  swept  wooded  mountains 

So  immeasurably  high 
That  their  gleaming,  snowy  summits 

Pierced  the  opalescent  sky, 

[58] 


" 

THE   MEN   WHO    BLAZE    THE   TRAIL 

While  the  sun  sent  shafts  of  amber 
To  adorn  their  clinging  clouds, 

And  the  moon  as  came  the  night-tide 
Veiled  their  forms  in  silver  shrouds. 

Women  framed  in  perfect  beauty, 

Greatest  gift  that  God  had  given, 
Reared  to  manhood  happy  children, 

Taught  them  truth  derived  from  Heaven ; 
Men  of  elemental  wisdom, 

Giants  of  that  elder  time, 
Made  the  land  a  perfect  Eden, 

Free  from  poverty  and  crime. 


Ill 


From  beyond  the  distant  mountains, 

Where  the  day  pursues  the  dawn, 
Came  strange  men  of  pallid  visage, 

Active  brain  and  feeble  brawn, 
Who  brought  all  their  wiles  and  vices, 

Leaving  truth  and  virtue  home, 
And  at  once  took  up  the  burden 

Of  good  government  for  Nome. 

[59] 


THE    MEN    WHO    BLAZE    THE    TRAIL 

They  brought  all  the  arts  and  customs 

Of  the  countries  whence  they  came, 
All  their  culture  and  refinement, 

All  their  wickedness  and  shame, 
And  they  taught  my  simple  people 

All  their  subtlety  of  mind 
And  the  luxury  of  living 

On  the  labor  of  their  kind. 

They  unearthed  my  hidden  treasures, 

Filled  their  coffers  full  of  gold, 
Trafficked  in  the  market  places 

Where  their  fellowmen  were  sold, 
Made  of  woman's  soul  and  virtue 

The  cheap  plaything  of  an  hour, 
Gave  the  rights  of  man  to  Mammon, 

Bought  their  way  to  place  and  power. 

When  God  saw  the  selfish  uses 

To  which  men  had  put  His  gold, 
Black  His  brow  became  with  anger 

And  His  heart  grew  stern  and  cold, 
And  He  hurled  His  bolts  of  thunder 

From  the  battlements  of  Heaven 
Till  the  sun  went  out  in  darkness 

And  remotest  space  was  riven. 

[60] 


THE   MEN   WHO    BLAZE   THE   TRAIL 

Then  came  on  that  awful  travail 

Which  made  Mother  Nature  groan, 
Shook  the  stars  from  out  the  heavens, 

Threw  the  Devil  from  his  throne, 
Swung  the  planets  from  their  orbits 

Till  they  aimless  swept  and  whirled, 
Turned  the  Tropics  to  the  Arctics, 

And  repolarized  the  world. 

Through  the  frigid,  age-long  winter 

Here  in  loneliness  I  dwelt 
In  my  breezy  glacial  cavern, 

Waiting  for  the  ice  to  melt, 
Till  at  last  I  caught  a  vision, 

Through  the  sun-transfigured  rime, 
Of  my  vales  once  more  aslumber 

'Neath  the  haze  of  summertime. 


IV 


Then  I  watched  that  wondrous  waking, 
Nineteen  hundred  years  ago, 

When  the  great  searchlights  of  Heaven 
Set  the  universe  aglow, 
[61] 


THE    MEN    WHO    BLAZE    THE    TRAIL 

Throwing  rays  of  hope  and  comfort 
Through  the  darkness  of  despair 

Hanging  o'er  the  heavy  laden 
And  the  weary  everywhere. 

All  night  long  the  earth  lay  sleeping 

'Neath  a  pale,  mysterious  light 
Beaming  from  the  throne  of  Heaven, 

Where  God's  lamps  were  burning  bright; 
Choirs  seraphic  made  sweet  music, 

Faintly  heard  through  gates  ajar — 
In  the  East,  above  the  morning, 

Shone  a  new  Irradiant  Star. 

Jesus  came  and  taught  His  lessons, 

Walked  the  earth  a  little  space, 
Lighted  all  the  ways  of  sorrow 

With  the  glory  of  His  face, 
Planted  hope  in  hopeless  bosoms 

As  he  went  from  door  to  door, 
Wept  and  fainted  by  the  wayside 

'Neath  the  burdens  of  the  poor. 

He  rebuked  the  righteous  rascals 
Who  stood  in  the  street  to  pray, 

Scourged  the  brokers  from  God's  temple, 
Drove  the  hypocrites  away, 


THE   MEN   WHO    BLAZE   THE   TRAIL 

Lifted  up  forsaken  women, 

Cheered  the  lonely  and  distressed, 
Folded  hungry  little  children 

Gently  to  His  loving  breast. 


Then  the  money-changers  dragged  Him 

Like  a  drunkard  through  the  street, 
Thrust  sharp  thorns  in  His  pale  forehead, 

Pierced  with  nails  His  bleeding  feet, 
Stretched  Him  on  the  tree  of  torture, 

And  His  quivering  muscles  tore, 
As  upon  the  cross  of  labor 

They  now  crucify  the  poor. 


As  His  Spirit  sped  to  Heaven, 

Clothed  in  raiment  white  as  snow, 
From  afar  I  heard  His  promise 

To  all  workers  here  below : 
"Watch  and  labor  in  my  vineyard, 

Bear  the  burden  and  the  pain; 
I  am  going  to  my  Father, 

But  I'll  come  to  you  again." 

[63] 


THE    MEN    WHO    BLAZE    THE    TRAIL 

V 

Then  a  great  awaking  pity 

Seized  upon  my  swelling  breast, 
And  my  heart  was  rilled  with  yearning 

For  the  wretched  and  oppressed; 
As  a  father  loves  to  labor 

For  the  children  of  his  bone, 
I  have  wrought  here  for  my  people, 

In  the  silence  and  alone. 

I  have  watched  them  sadly  toiling 

Through  the  centuries  as  slaves, 
Never  laying  down  their  burdens 

Till  they  dropped  them  at  their  graves, 
And  while  watching  I've  been  working 

For  the  workers  in  all  lands, 
For  the  millions  born  to  labor, 

Their  sole  heritage  their  hands. 

Not  as  wrought  the  other  Goldsmiths, 

Jealous  of  their  hoarded  wealth, 
Who  in  darkness  through  the  ages 

Wrought  in  secret,  and  by  stealth 
Hid  it  in  the  heart  of  mountains 

From  the  primal  stratum  hurled, 
Or  beneath  the  slag  and  cinders 

In  the  basement  of  the  world. 


THE    MEN    WHO    BLAZE    THE    TRAIL 

They  wrought  for  the  thrifty  masters, 

For  the  men  of  fertile  brain, 
Who  grow  rich  through  toil  of  others, 

Thriving  on  their  brothers'  pain — 
Who  by  traffic  with  earth's  rulers 

Gain  control  of  Nature's  sod, 
Arrogating  as  their  birthright 

A  co-partnership  with  God. 
******** 

Come  and  take  my  golden  treasures 

From  the  shining,  yielding  sands; 
They  shall  be  the  untithed  wages 

Of  your  free,  unfettered  hands. 
If  the  men  who  prey  on  labor 

Try  to  grasp  the  gold  you  glean, 
I  will  call  the  guardian  nation, 

And  she'll  scourge  them  from  the  scene. 

For  the  self-selected  savior 

Of  the  islands  of  the  sea 
Will  not  idly  stand  and  witness 

Such  a  blow  to  liberty; 
She  that  'round  the  lazy  heathen 

Her  protecting  arms  has  thrown 
Will  not  let  her  working  children 

Be  defrauded  of  their  own. 


THE    MEN    WHO    BLAZE    THE    TRAIL 


SINCE  THE  JUDGE  LEFT  HERE 
FOR  NOME 

Like  one  just  waking  from  a  dream,  I  walked 

abroad  to-day 
And   rambled    to   the   green-roofed   town   that 

sleeps  across  the  bay; 
I  wandered  to  the  empty  house,  where  I  was 

wont  to  go 
And  always  found  a  welcome  and  a  solace  for 

my  woe — 
Where  erstwhile  on  cold  winter  nights  (so  long 

and  yet  so  short!) 
We  boys  from  all  the  island  round  did  frequently 

resort 
To  celebrate  the  passing  hours  by  playing  cards 

and  pool, 
While  our  kind  host  ran  back  and  forth  and  with 

his  famous  tool 
Extracted  corks  and  filled  us  up  on  beer  and 

wine  and  stuff 
Till  each  had  sworn  repeatedly  that  he  was  full 

enough. 

[66] 


THE   MEN    WHO    BLAZE   THE    TRAIL 

I  stood  despondent  at  the  door  and  faced  the 

frozen  foam 
That  from  my  frail  and  faltering  feet  reached 

westward  to  Cape  Nome, 
And  as  I  gazed  with  brimming  eyes  across  the 

shining  sea, 
Some  sober  thoughts  and  sentiments  were  blown 

ashore  to  me. 

I  pictured  in  my  burning  brain  the  Judge  upon 

the  trail, 
Entombed  within  a  native  shack  or  struck  by 

Arctic  gale, 
And    then    that    old,    old    question    came    and 

bothered  me  again, 
"Are  those  who  go  or  those  who  stay  the  sport 

of  greatest  pain?" 
And  as  I  rubbed  my  throbbing  brow,  my  aching 

heart  repined, 
"The  ones  who  suffer  most  of  all  are  those  who 

stay  behind !" 

I'm  sure  as  westward  speeds  the  Judge  he  little 

apprehends 
The  frightful  havoc  he  has  wrought  among  his 

former  friends; 


THE   MEN   WHO    BLAZE   THE    TRAIL 

If  he  could  hear  them  sigh  and  groan  and  see 
them  try  to  walk, 

I'm  sure  he  never  would  again  produce  his  pri 
vate  stock 

Of  Runnymede  and  Pommery's  and  Mumm's  se 
ductive  sees 

And  pour  the  same  persistently  down  their  re 
ceptive  necks. 

(The  thing  that  seems  most  strange  to  me  and 
fills  me  with  surprise 

Is  how  the  Judge's  "private  stock"  affects  a  fel 
low's  eyes — 

Last  night  before  he  went  away  the  town  was 
painted  red, 

But  now  it  wears  a  ghastly  green  like  grave-grass 
.  o'er  the  dead.) 


I  wandered  through  the  hatless  hall  and  passed 

from  room  to  room, 
Last  night  alive  with  mirth  and  light,  to-day 

adead  with  gloom. 
I  went  into  the  parlor,  where  we  used  to  sit 

around 
And  suffer  till  the  Judge  his  punch  did  perfectly 

compound. 

[68] 


THE    MEN    WHO    BLAZE    THE    TRAIL 

The   bookcase   stood    with   vacant   shelves    and 

doors  extended  wide, 
As  if  it  yearned  for  vanished  friends  that  once 

reposed  inside; 
Some  flowering  plants,  left  there  abloom  with 

blossoms  chaste  and  rare, 
Already  drooped  their  slender  stems  for  want 

of  woman's  care — 
The  sight  of  these  familiar  things  intensified  my 

grief 
So  that  I  sadly  turned  away  and  sought  outside 

relief. 


I  blundered  with  uncertain  steps  into  a  closet 

dark, 
Where    stood   the   shapes   of   spirits   flown,   all 

glassy-eyed  and  stark — 
A  hundred  bottles,  all  uncorked  (last  night  with 

fullness  rife), 
Proclaiming  by  their  emptiness  the  emptiness  of 

life. 
What  happened  then  ?    Was  it  a  dream  ?    What 

was  I  looking  at? 
What  was  it  that  on  yonder  shelf  so  calm  and 

proudly  sat? 

[69] 


THE    MEN    WHO    BLAZE    THE    TRAIL 

(It  was  a  large  cold  cruse  of  Mumm  the  Judge 

forgot  to  crack — 
I   cracked    it   with   celerity,   my   lips   began   to 

smack, 
And  to  my  careless  absent  friend  I  drank  this 

truthful  toast : 
"Of  all  the  drinks  I've  drunk  with  you  I  needed 

this  one  most !") 


The  room  that  had  appeared  so  dark  was  bril 
liantly  ablaze — 

The  scene  now  shone  resplendent  with  the  light 
of  other  days ; 

The  place  was  full  of  brawny  men  and  charming 
women  too — 

The  former  rather  numerous,  the  latter  some 
what  few; 

I  heard  again  the  happy  jest,  the  reading  of  old 
rhymes, 

The  tales  of  hardships  long  endured,  the  stories 
of  old  times ; 

I  heard  once  more  the  sweet  old  songs,  sung 
with  a  graceful  art 

That  made  us  think  of  childhood's  days  and 
softened  every  heart; 

[70] 


And  then  I  sank  into  a  chair  and  wished  I  was 

in  Nome, 
And  while  I  wished  I  fell  asleep  and  dreamed  a 

dream  of  home. 


[7.1] 


THE    MEN    WHO    BLAZE    THE    TRAIL 


TO    THE    YUKON    ORDER    OF 
PIONEERS 

In  Memory  of  Charles  S.  Lavante.     Died  at  Nome, 
Sept.  8f  1900. 

Will  you  let  an  Arctic  Brother  lay  a  garland  on 

the  bier 
Where   sleeps  the  stark  and  pallid   form  of  a 

Yukon  Pioneer? 
Will  you  let  me  pay  a  tribute  to  the  one  you 

mourn  to-day, 
Whose    soul    is    speeding    homeward    from    its 

worked-out  dump  of  clay? 

I  spent  a  winter  with  your  friend  among  the 
Yukon  hills, 

And  shared  with  him  his  simple  joys  and  com 
plicated  ills; 

I  saw  him  tested  by  the  rule  which  few  at  Nome 
observe, 

That  we  should  do  to  other  men  what  we  our 
selves  deserve. 

[72] 


THE    MEN    WHO    BLAZE    THE    TRAIL 

He  broke  the  rules  of  order  and  the  excise  ordi 
nance 

By  selling  untaxed  liquor  at  the  old-time  Siwash 
dance ; 

But  he  never  broke  the  maxim  of  the  mushers  on 
the  trail, 

That  it's  wrong  to  pass  a  comrade  when  you  see 
he's  apt  to  fail. 

I  see  his  face  a-beaming  as  he  stood  behind  the 

bar 
And  listened  to  the  soothing  tones  of  Bates's  old 

guitar, 
In  the  good  old  days  at  Circle,  ere  the  courts 

and  lawyers  came 
To  rob  our  richest  sluices  in  a  way  that  is  a 

shame. 

I  hear  again  his  gentle  voice  and  see  his  sad, 
sweet  smile, 

As  he  told  the  tales  of  hardship  on  the  creeks 
at  Forty  Mile — 

How  you  wintered  on  bad  bacon  and  on  prehis 
toric  beans, 

And  when  you  had  the  scurvy  steeped  the  spruce 
boughs  for  your  greens. 

[73] 


THE    MEN   WHO    BLAZE    THE    TRAIL 

He  told  me  all  about  the  trails  that  climbed  up 
in  the  air, 

Meandered  o'er  the  mountain  peaks,  and  ended — 
God  knows  where ! 

He  told  me  of  the  hopeful  time  you  spent  at 
Cassiar, 

And  how  you  used  to  rock  out  gold  on  old  Bo 
nanza  Bar. 

He  told  me  how  the  traders  used  to  do  you  boys 

up  brown 
By  putting  up  the  prices  when  they  said  they'd 

put  them  down, 
And  all  about  that  awful  year  you  fellows  almost 

died 
Because   you  missed   'The  Racket"   and   were 

forced  to  stay  inside. 

His  latchstring  always  hung  outside,  and  you 

never  had  to  knock, 
For  he  had  no  knocker  at  his   door,  and  he 

hadn't  any  lock; 
When  you  asked  him  for  a  porterhouse  he  dished 

up  caribou, 
And  when  you  craved  a  whisky  straight  he  set 

up  "hootchinoo." 

[74] 


THE    MEN    WHO    BLAZE    THE    TRAIL 

He  never  liked  the  Klondike,  and  he  had  no  faith 

in  Nome, 
And  since  he  came,  in  '86,  he  got  no  news  from 

home ; 
But  he  never  lost  his  courage,  and  he  always 

used  to  say 
That  the  good  old  times  at  Forty  Mile  would 

come  again  to  stay. 

The  good  old  times  have  come  to  him — but  not 

at  Forty  Mile — 
And  nevermore  at  Circle  will  you  see  his  happy 

smile; 
For  he's  gone  to  take  his  well-earned  rest  in  the 

universal  way, 
And  I  know  he'll  find  God's  latchstring  a-hang- 

ing  out  to-day. 


[751 


THE    MEN    WHO    BLAZE    THE    TRAIL 

A  GREETING  TO  THE  SWEDES 

From  Their  Fellow-sufferers  at  Topkuk 

We  learn  to-day  that  you've  received  a  mes 
sage  from  the  Sound 

Which  loosed  the  legal  ligatures  with  which 
your  claims  were  bound. 

We  send  our  warmest  greetings,  and  hope  that 
you  will  get 

The  dust  the  Boss  Receiver  is  a-hanging  on  to 
yet. 

We  had  our  little  laughs  last  year,  and  chuckled 

at  your  woes 
Caused  by  the  festive  jumpers  and  the  mournful 

old  Sour  Doughs  ; 
But  we've  ceased  to  smile  and  laid  our  laughs 

upon  the  upper  shelves, 
For  we  have  learned  to  our  regret  just  how  it  is 

ourselves. 

We  have  a  sub-receiver  here,  who's  working  out 

our  mine 
In  a  systematic  manner  which  makes  our  hearts 

repine. 

[76] 


THE   MEN   WHO   BLAZE   THE   TRAIL 

He  brought  a  damned  expensive  plant,  shipped 
in  his  boss's  name, 

And  planted  it  against  our  "kick"  upon  our  rich 
est  claim. 

He  brought  a  gang  of  bosom  friends,  helped  up 

here  from  below, 
And  wouldn't  give  a  single  job  to  any  one  we 

know, 
And  when  he  took  the  riffles  out  and  weighed  his 

shining  swag, 
He  wouldn't  let  us  see  the  scales  or  even  heft 

the  bag. 

We  called  upon  the  "lowest"  court  and  all  the 

powers  that  be — 
We  raised  our  mournful  cries  to  Heaven  and 

sent  them  out  to  sea ; 
We  cried  in  vain  for  earthly  help  and  almost 

ceased  to  fight, 
When  Nature  took  a  hand  and  gave  a  knockout 

blow  for  right. 

Last  week  the  foam-crowned  Sea  King  came  and 

served  his  unbought  writ, 
And   Aleck's  high-priced   plant   now   lies   deep 

down  beneath  the  spit. 

[77] 


THE   MEN   WHO    BLAZE   THE   TRAIL 

God  jumped  our  claim  and  drove  away  the  horde 

of  unpaid  hands, 
Who  wander  up  and  down  and  weep  along  our 

worked-out    sands. 


We  join  with  you  in  praise  to-day  and  raise  a 

joyful  shout 
In  honor  of  the  righteous  laws  that  knocked  the 

jumpers  out. 
Let's  celebrate  in  dry  champagne  the  powers  that 

wield  the  rod — 
You  thank  the  U.  S.  Circuit  Court  while  we  give 

thanks  to  God! 


[78] 


THE   MEN   WHO   BLAZE   THE   TRAIL 


THE  POOR  SWEDE 

A  square-headed,  hard-working  Swede, 
Propelled  by  inordinate  greed, 
Mushed  around  in  the  cold 
Till  he  found  some  coarse  gold, 
And  then  came  to  town  at  full  speed. 

A  lawyer  with  galvanized  jaw, 
Whose  mode  of  procedure  was  raw, 
Sent  a  thief  out  to  jump 
The  rich  claim  of  the  chump 
And  stake  it  "according  to  law." 

The  Swede  is  now  stretched  on  the  rack 
And  trying  to  get  his  claim  back, 

While  the  Court  takes  its  time 

To  consider  the  crime 
Till  the  receiver  fills  up  his  long  sack. 


[79] 


THE    MEN    WHO    BLAZE    THE    TRAIL 


THE  LAWYER  AND  THE  MINER 


A  lawyer  was  disbarred  back  home 
And  found  it  convenient  to  roam; 

He  floated  this  way 

In  a  cargo  of  hay 
And  inflicted  his  presence  on  Nome. 

He  waited  for  clients  to  rob 

Till  his  stomach  demanded  a  job; 

Then  he  haunted  the  street 

For  something  to  eat 
Till  he  looked  like  a  Klondike  slob. 


II 

A  miner  climbed  over  the  hills 
And  prospected  the  gulches  and  rills 
Till  he  discovered  enough 
Of  the  right  kind  of  stuff 
To  drive  away  poverty's  ills. 

[80] 


THE    MEN    WHO    BLAZE    THE    TRAIL 

He  staked  a  rich  claim  in  his  name 
And  proceeded  to  ground-sluice  the  same; 
Then  he  came  in  and  bragged 
Of  the  gold  he  had  bagged — 
That's  why  he's  not  working  his  claim. 


Ill 

The  case  was  decided  next  day 

In  the  usual  ex  parte  way, 

And  the  miner  then  found 
He  was  robbed  of  his  ground 

And  couldn't  get  even  a  lay. 

The  lawyer  now  has  ample  means 
And  frequents  the  most  brilliant  scenes; 

He  eats  three  times  a  day 

At  the  Paree  Caffay, 
While  the  miner  eats  bacon  and  beans. 


81] 


THE   MEN   WHO   BLAZE   THE   TRAIL 


HOMEWARD  BOUND 

I  am  out  upon  the  ocean, 

Sailing  southward  to  the  Sound 
With  six  hundred  busted  brothers, 

Kicking  hard,  but  homeward  bound. 
There  are  sixty  in  the  staterooms 

And  some  eighty  souls  or  so 
Sleeping  on  the  floors  and  tables, 

While  the  rest  seek  sleep  below. 

Of  the  sixty  in  the  cabin 

Only  thirty  had  the  stuff, 
While  the  others  came  on  passes 

Or  some  other  sort  of  bluff. 
How  the  hundreds  in  the  steerage 

Got  the  gold  to  get  them  home 
Always  will  remain  the  greatest 

Of  the  mysteries  of  Nome. 

There's  a  siren  from  Seattle 

Who  is  traveling  in  style, 
Basking  in  the  brilliant  sunshine 

Of  the  purser's  dazzling  smile. 
[82] 


THE    MEN   WHO    BLAZE    THE    TRAIL 

She  has  jumped  a  first-class  stateroom 
That  is  simply  out  of  sight, 

And  has  oranges  and  apples 

With  her  champagne  every  night. 

There's  a  widow  with  two  children 

Who  is  trying  to  get  home, 
Having  given  up  the  struggle 

When  her  husband  died  at  Nome. 
Both  her  kids  exhibit  cravings 

For  all  kinds  of  fruits  and  nuts, 
But  they  can't  get  'nough  of  either 

To  distend  their  little  guts. 

There's  a  smooth  absconding  lawyer, 

Wearing  diamonds  like  a  sport, 
Who  spends  all  his  lucid  moments 

Praising  Nome's  imported  Court. 
He  has  beefsteaks  in  his  stateroom, 

Purloined  by  the  pantryman, 
While  his  clients  in  the  steerage 

Eat  cold  corn-beef  from  a  can. 

There's  a  Topkuk  sub-receiver 
Who  is  smuggling  like  a  thief 

All  the  gold  the  gang  could  gobble 
For  their  late-transported  Chief. 


THE   MEN   WHO    BLAZE   THE    TRAIL 

He  indulges  in  fresh  oysters, 
Fine  cigars  and  foreign  wines, 

While  the  man  who  first  staked  Topkuk 
Tells  us  how  they  robbed  his  mines. 

There  are  counts  galore  from  Paris 

And  a  few  of  them  from  Spain, 
Who  invaded  Nome  to  traffic; 

But  they'll  not  do  so  again, 
For  they  found  their  debts  so  heavy 

That  they  had  to  leave  them  there, 
While  their  unpaid  Dago  valets 

Had  to  come  out  on  the  Bear. 

Late  last  night  they  gave  a  banquet, 

And  imposed  some  heavy  fines 
To  defray  the  steward's  charges 

For  his  bummest  brands  of  wines. 
All  the  guests  stood  the  assessment 

Without  making  any  kick, 
But  as  soon  as  they  get  sober 

They'll  appreciate  the  trick. 

I  shall  not  recount  the  horrors 
And  the  terrors  of  the  trip, 

For  the  same  may  be  imagined 
By  all  those  who  know  the  ship; 

[84] 


THE    MEN    WHO    BLAZE    THE    TRAIL 

But  I'll  simply  say  in  closing 
That  the  most  distressing  fact 

That  has  come  to  my  attention 
Is  the  way  the  ladies  act. 


[85] 


THE    MEN    WHO    BLAZE    THE    TRAIL 


TO  THE  YUKON  SOUR  DOUGHS 

I've  done  just  as  you  told  me  to  that  night  I 

read  to  you 
My  simple  Yukon  verses  and  you  said,  "By  God ! 

they're  true!*' 
But  I  can't  report  much  progress  in  a  literary 

way, 
For  the  folks  down  here  don't  hanker  for  the 

things  I  have  to  say. 

I  read  my  verses  to  some  men  officially  quite 

high, 
Who  could  give  you  boys  up  there  relief  if  they 

would  only  try; 
But  I  couldn't  make  them  smile  or  weep  or  even 

once  relax — 
Perhaps  they  don't  like  poetry  that's  based  on 

solid  facts. 

I  read  them  to  the  statesmen  who  combined  and 

formed  a  trust 
To  monopolize  sluice-robbing  and  to  confiscate 

your  dust, 

[86] 


THE   MEN    WHO    BLAZE    THE    TRAIL 

And  shipped  to  Nome  last  summer  a  gang  of 

hired  hands 
To  drive  you  from  your  placers  and  to  gut  your 

golden  sands. 

I  held  them  with  my  glittering  eye  and  read  my 

very  best, 
Just  as  the  Ancient  Manner  held  up  the  wedding 

guest ; 
But  just  before  I  made  my  point  they  vanished 

with  the  "whips" 
To  reorganize  the  army  and  to  subsidize  some 

ships. 

I  tried  to  get  my  verses  in  the  daily  picture-press, 
But  the  men  who  guard  its  columns  sent  them 

back  to  my  address, 
With  the  gentle  intimation,  "We've  no  room  for 

news  from  Nome; 
We're  too  busy  with  our  neighbors  to  consider 

crimes  at  home." 

Then  I  sent  them  to  the  censors  of  the  ic-cent 

magazines ; 
But  they  wanted  stuff  from  China  or  the  un- 

whipped  Philippines, 

[87] 


THE    MEN    WHO    BLAZE    THE    TRAIL 

Or  a  lot  of  pictures  showing  how  the   British 

butcher  Boers — 
Not  a  word  about  the  pirates  who  infest  your 

barren  shores. 

So  I've  had  my  verses  printed,  and  I  send  them 

up  to  you, 
Who  for  years  have  borne  the  burden,  but  are 

yet  as  staunch  and  true 
As  when  first  you  blazed  the  pathway   to  the 

white  and  silent  land ; 
And  I  know  that  when  you  read  them  you  will 

feel  and  understand. 


[88] 


LATER  VERSES 


THE    MEN    WHO    BLAZE    THE    TRAIL 


A  WISE   SWEDE 

Last  year,  when  the  fever  for  staking 

Raged  hotly  on  tundra  and  creek, 
I  fled  for  my  life,  and  while  breaking 

The  trail  to  a  far-distant  peak, 
To  stake  for  my  health  on  the  summit, 

I  mushed  up  a  canyon  that  feed? 
The  famous-rich-coveted  placers 

Discovered  and  staked  by  the  Swedes. 

As  far  as  my  eyesight  could  travel — 

From  the  head  of  the  creek  to  its  lakes, 
To  the  sky-reaching  rim  of  its  gravel — 

There  was  nothing  but  silence  and  stakes; 
For  the  gold  which  God  in  His  goodness 

Had  placed  there  to  make  the  Swedes  glad 
Lay  deep  'neath  a  godless  injunction 

Which  covered  the  claims  they  once  had. 

I  mushed  up  the  canyon  as  quickly 
As  a  musher  like  me  could  proceed 

Till  I  came  to  a  claim  where  a  sickly 
But  exceedingly  square-headed  Swede 

[91] 


THE   MEN    WHO    BLAZE   THE   TRAIL 

Was  rapidly  rocking  a  rocker 

With  a  skillful  and  minerlike  twist 

That  yielded  each  clean-up  a  panful 
Of  nuggets  as  big  as  your  fist. 

The  claim  had  been  staked  to  perfection, 

As  even  a  novice  could  see, 
For  it  bristled  in  every  direction 

With  stakes  that  were  tall  as  a  tree. 
It  looked  like  a  hopfield  in  autumn — 

No  jumper  would  ever  presume 
To  make  an  attempt  at  pre-emption, 

For  the  landscape  afforded  no  room. 

I  marveled  why  Back-room  Injunction, 

The  servant  of  Organized  Greed — 
His  Honor's  most  fraudulent  function — 

Had  never  "injuncted"  this  Swede; 
And  I  asked  him  to  tell  me  the  secret 

Of  how  he  had  managed  to  keep 
His  claim  from  the  clutch  of  the  lawyers 

And  all  its  great  benefits  reap. 

He  climbed  up  and  sat  down  beside  me, 
On  a  big  pile  of  well-sharpened  stakes, 

And  calmly  but  searchingly  eyed  me, 
With  the  care  that  a  mind-reader  takes; 

[92] 


THE    MEN    WHO    BLAZE    THE    TRAIL 

Then  he  leaned,  with  an  air  confidential, 
Till  his  whiskers  reposed  on  my  cheek, 

And  with  a  smile  that  was  placid  he  whispered, 
"I  yump  it  myself  every  veek!" 


[93] 


THE   MEN   WHO   BLAZE   THE   TRAIL 


BRICK  WHEATON'S   GRAVE* 

I've  been  across  to  Oakland  Hights,  just  as  I 

promised  you, 
An'  fixed  "Brick"  Wheaton's   restin'  place  the 

way  you  told  me  to, 
An'    planted    in    the    coolest    spot,    among    the 

strange  plants  there, 
The  slender  sprigs  of  Yukon  fern  you  sent  him 

in  my  care. 

But  Jack  McQuesten  tells  me  that  he's  sure 
they'll  never  grow, 

'Cause  they  ought  to  be  a-sleepin'  now  beneath 
the  Yukon  snow; 

He  says  all  things  that's  raised  up  North  is  sen 
sitive  an'  queer — 

That  even  men  that's  been  up  there  ain't  satis 
fied  down  here. 

*  Written  in  San  Francisco  and  dedicated  to  Circle 
City  Camp  No.  7,  Arctic  Brotherhood,  in  memory  of 
W.  R.  Wheaton,  who  died  at  Nome,  July  27,  1900. 

[94] 


THE   MEN   WHO    BLAZE    THE    TRAIL 

He  tells  me  that  in  twenty  years  he  never  knew 

a  man 
That  spent  a  winter  in  the  North — except  one 

African — 
An'  came  outside  to  see  the  sights,  that  wasn't 

broke  an'  tired 
An'  homesick  for  his  Yukon  friends  before  a 

month  expired. 

He  says  his  little  children  fret  an'  mope  aroun' 

all  day 
To  have  him  take  'em  back  again  to  where  they 

use  to  play 

An'  fish  along  the  river  bank  an'  imitate  the  cry 
O'  wild  geese  tracin'  long  black  lines  across  the 

summer  sky. 

He  says  they  keep  a-beggin'  an'  implorin'  him 
to  go 

Back  where  they  used  to  frolic  with  their  play 
mates  in  the  snow 

An'  watch  the  stars  an'  wonder  at  the  tremblin' 
Northern  Lights 

That  flit  an'  dance  an'  whisper  through  the 
moon-tranced  Arctic  nights. 

[95] 


THE    MEN    WHO    BLAZE    THE    TRAIL 

He  says  the  Malamutes  he  brought  to  make  his 

children  glad 
Became  before  a  week  went  by  low-spirited  an' 

sad, 
An'  moped  aroun'  just  like  the  kids,  an'  even 

though  he  tried 
To  cheer  'em  up  with  empty  cans,  they  pined 

away  an'  died. 

Old  Jack  declares  that  it's  the  heat  that  makes 
his  children  weep 

An'  renders  Yukon  plants  an'  dogs  so  difficult  to 
keep; 

He  says  there's  somethin'  in  the  hootch  these 
roadhouse-keepers  sell 

That  makes  this  climate  worse  for  us  than  sum 
mertime  in  hell. 

But  I've  got  my  own  opinion  why  his  little  chil 
dren  cry, 

An'  why  the  Yukon  plants  an'  dogs  get  homesick 
here  an'  die. 

It  ain't  the  heat  an'  ain't  the  hootch,  but  a  sort 
o'  soshul  fog 

That  breeds  an  awful  lonesomeness  that  even 
kills  a  dog. 

[96] 


THE    MEN    WHO    BLAZE    THE    TRAIL 

The  high-toned  children  born  down  here  with 
pedigrees  all  right 

Decline  to  play  with  Yukon  kids  whose  mothers 
ain't  pure  white, 

An'  when  they  pass  'em  on  the  trail  they  elevate 
their  nose 

An'  laugh  because  they're  pidgin-toed  an'  criti 
cise  their  clo's. 


The  high-toned  curly  poodle  dogs  with  ribbons 

roun'  their  necks 
Don't  act  a  bit  more  soshable,  but  sneak  behind 

an'  vex 
The  Malamutes  till  they  get  mad  an'  spoilin'  for 

a  fight, 
But  when  they  turn  aroun'  to  scrap  the  poodles 

ain't  in  sight. 

I  mush  along  the  crowded  trails — they  call  a 
trail  a  "street"— 

An'  nod  an'  smile  an'  say  "Hello!"  to  all  the 
folks  I  meet ; 

But  every  cuss  looks  straight  ahead  an'  emu 
lates  the  speed 

Of  a  Circle  City  miner  on  a  Tanana  stampede. 

[97] 


THE   MEN   WHO    BLAZE   THE   TRAIL 

They  never  stop  an'  ask  a  man  how  he  is  gettin' 
on, 

Or  try  to  ascertain  from  him  if  all  his  bacon's 
gone; 

They  never  take  a  stranger  in  to  spend  a  pleas 
ant  hour, 

Or  ask  him  if  he's  out  o'  beans  or  if  he  needs 
some  flour. 

This  heartless  conduct  makes  me  sad  an'  lone 
some  like  the  kids, 

An'  every  Sunday  afternoon,  unless  the  fog  for 
bids, 

I  cross  the  bay  to  Oakland,  where  I  while  away 
the  hours 

Beside  Brick's  peaceful  restin'  place  an'  cultivate 
his  flowers. 

An'  while  I  set  there  by  his  grave,  revolvin'  in 
my  mind 

Why  Death  most  always  takes  the  good  an' 
leaves  the  bad  behind, 

My  memory  goes  a-mushin'  an'  it  mushes  to  the 
scenes 

Where  Brick  an'  me  was  neighbors,  in  the  far- 
off  land  of  beans. 

[98] 


THE    MEN    WHO    BLAZE    THE    TRAIL 

I  set  an'  dream  about  the  things  we  use  to  do 

up  there 
That  was  legally  unlawful,  but  that  otherwise 

was  square, 
In  the  good  old  days  at  Circle,  'fore  the  lawyers 

formed  a  trust 
To  jump  our  richest  minin'  claims  an'  confiscate 

our  dust. 

Again  I  hear  the  soothin'  tones  o'  Bates's  old 
guitar, 

As  he  sung  about  "The  Fisher  Maiden"  at  the 
Polar  Star ; 

Again  I  see  Brick  rasslin'  with  his  yaller  mando 
lin, 

As  he  chanted  'bout  the  charms  o'  hootch  an' 
other  kinds  o'  sin. 

Again  I  hear  his  anecdotes  that  use  to  make  us 

smile, 
About  the   soshul   scandals  that   excited   Forty 

Mile, 
An'  watch  his  evolutions  as  he  use  to  frisk  an' 

prance 
An'  liven  up  the  Lancers  at  the  old-time  Siwash 

dance. 

[99] 


THE    MEN   WHO    BLAZE    THE    TRAIL 

Brick  had  a  lot  o'  weaknesses,  but  most  of  'em 

was  strong 
Compared  to  Christian  virtues,  an'  but  few  of 

"em  was  wrong. 
He  sometimes  got  bewildered,  but  he  weighed 

our  gold  dust  fair, 
An'    I    recall   but   one   time   when   his   conduct 

wasn't  square. 

That's  when  he  stole  my  parkie  for  the  hungry 

shiverin'  cuss 
That  nearly  starved  at  Dawson  'fore  he  floated 

down  to  us, 
An'  took  him  to  my  cabin,  where  he  put  him  in 

my  bed 
An'  filled  him  full  o'  hootch  an'  beans  an'  left 

him  there  for  dead. 

He  never  passed  a  comrade  havin'  trouble  on 

the  trail 
Until   he'd    lingered    long   enough   to    hear   his 

mournful  tale, 
An'  whether  it  was   strictly  true  or  somewhat 

otherwise, 
It  always  proved  sufficient  to  secure  some  fresh 

supplies. 

[100] 


THE   MEN    WHO    BLAZE    THE    TRAIL 

He  never  broke  a  contract  for  an  insufficient 

cause, 
An'  never  jumped  a  minin'  claim  or  broke  the 

minin'  laws; 
For   he   had   an   inborn   weakness    for   the   old 

Yukon  belief 
That  a  man  who  jumps  a  placer  is  an  acrobatic 

thief. 

In  dividin'  with  a  pardner  he  was  never  known 

to  make 

An  error  in  division,  an'  he  never  tried  to  take 
Advantage   o'   the   clean-up,   like   some  modern 

pardners   do, 
An'  he  never  kicked  a  Siwash  dog  or  sawed  a 

boat  in  two. 


He's  climbed  up  past  the  great  white  peaks  that 

overlook   the   vale 
Where  God  has  built  a  roadhouse  for  the  men 

who  blaze  the  trail, 
An'  he's  restin'  there  an'  waitin'  for  his  old-time 

Yukon  friends 
To  climb  up  there  an'  join  him  when  their  earthly 

mushin'  ends. 

[101] 


THE    MEN    WHO    BLAZE   THE    TRAIL 

When  all  the  kindly  deeds  he  done  are  entered 

over  there 
By  the  honest  Camp  Recorder,  who  records  our 

titles  fair, 
I'm  sure  the  Great  Impartial  Judge,  in  passin' 

on  the  same, 
Will   rule   he   ain't   no  alien   an'   entitled   to   a 

claim. 


TIC*]' 


THE    MEN    WHO    BLAZE    THE    TRAIL 


A  YUKON  VISION* 

As  one  who  holds  a  sea-shell  to  his  ear, 

On  some  far  mountaintop,  can  hear  the  moan 
Of  Ocean's  sad,  eternal  monotone, 

So  he  who  contemplates  this  Relic  here, 

Methinks,  may  catch  this  vision,  sharp  and  clear : 
Two  rival  monarchs  of  the  frozen  zone 
In   mortal    comhat    for    the   Great    Moose 
throne, 

With  Death  in  midnight  shadows  lurking  near; 

The    swiftly    gathering    wolf-pack's    hunger-cry 
Across   the    ghost-pale    snow    beneath    the 

moon ; 
The  low,  discordant  dirge  of  dying  groans; 

The  fading  life-light  in  a  death-glazed  eye ; 

And  lying  stark,  as  dawns  the  Arctic  noon, 
This    Relic,    'tween   two   piles    of   polished 
bones. 

*  Lines  engraved  on  the  silver  plate  on  interlocked 
moosehorns  found  on  the  Yukon  in  1898,  and  now  in 
possession  of  the  San  Francisco-Alaska  Club  of  San 
Francisco.  Plate  presented  to  the  club  by  Erik  O.  Lind- 
blom. 

1 103 1 


THE    MAN    WHO    BLAZE    THE    TRAIL 

TO   ANDREW    CARNEGIE 

We're  informed  that  you're  afraid 
To  explore  Death's  gloomy  glade 
Till  you've  restitution  made 

Of  the  pelf 

You  extracted  from  the  toil 
Of  the  men  who  sweat  and  broil, 
Keeping  nearly  all  the  spoil 

For  yourself. 

You  imported  hordes  of  Huns, 
And  with  clubs  and  gatling  guns 
Drove  our  working  native  sons 

From  your  mills, 
While  the  Congressmen  you  paid 
On  the  armor-plate  you  made 
A  protective  tariff  laid 

In  their  bills. 

You  find  balm  in  the  belief 
That  the  most  colossal  thief 
May  repent  and  buy  relief 

For  his  soul ; 

But  the  law  of  God  declares 
Ere  he  climb  the  golden  stairs 
He  must  pay  the  rightful  heirs 

All  he  stole. 
[104] 


THE    MEN    WHO    BLAZE    THE    TRAIL 

Now  the  men  who  earned  your  gold 

Rapidly  are  growing  old — 

Weak  from  hunger  and  from  cold, 

They  can't  work; 
With  old  age  fast  creeping  on, 
With  their  loved  ones  starved  and  gone, 
They  are  waiting  for  the  dawn 

At  the  kirk. 

While  they  beg  their  daily  bread, 
With  no  place  to  lay  their  head, 
And  no  hope  till  they  are  dead, 

'Neath   the   mould, 
You  are  squandering  their  means 
'Mid  attractive  foreign  scenes, 
And  you'll  buy  the  Philippines — 

If  they're  sold. 

You  are  building  everywhere 
Homes  for  books  and  pictures  rare, 
While  these  men  die  of  despair, 

And  we're  told 

That  you  hope  to  write  your  name 
On  the  world's  great  roll  of  fame 
And  expect  to  gild  the  same 

With  their  gold. 

[105] 


THE   MEN   WHO    BLAZE   THE   TRAIL 

Now,  we  have  a  better  scheme — 
It's  no  poet's  idle  dream, 
And  it  would  your  soul  redeem 

At  the  last: 

Give  your  millions  to  the  ones 
Whom  you  drove  out  for  the  Huns 
At  the  muzzle  of  your  guns 

In  the  past. 

If  you'll  take  our  scheme  in  hand, 
Everyone  in  this  broad  land 
Will  declare  your  project  grand 

And  sublime. 

Peace  of  mind  you'll  then  secure; 
God  will  bless  you,  we  are  sure, 
And  your  fame  it  will  endure 

For  all  time. 


THE   MEN   WHO    BLAZE   THE   TRAIL 

RIDER  ROOSEVELT 

(With  apologies  to  the  late  Eugene  Field.) 

If  I  were  Rider  Roosevelt  and  Rider  Roose 
velt  I, 

No  publisher  would  hesitate  my  manuscripts  to 
buy. 

I'd  make  no  rhymes  about  the  crimes  committed 
by  our  courts, 

But  praise  in  prose  our  costly  wars  and  other 
strenuous  sports; 

I'd  print  a  book  of  tactics  on  the  way  my  cow 
boys  drilled, 

And  write  a  brilliant  brochure  on  "Wild  Animals 
I've  Killed." 

The  printer  of  my  books,  I  ween,  could  scarce 
the  trade  supply — 

If  I  were  Rider  Roosevelt  and  Rider  Roose 
velt  I. 

If  I  were  Rider  Roosevelt  and  Rider  Roose 
velt  I, 

He  could  not  sell  his  books  because  the  public 
would  not  buy; 


THE    MEN    WHO    BLAZE    THE    TRAIL 

He  could  not  ride  at  eventide  upon  a  prancing 
steed, 

Nor  earn  the  wherewithal  to  buy  the  things  his 
children  need; 

He  could  not  keep  his  charming  wife  in  neces 
sary  gear, 

Not  even  if  her  frocks  cost  less  than  fifty  pounds 
a  year; 

And  often  when  he  tried  to  sleep,  these  thoughts 
would  make  him  sigh — 

If  I  were  Rider  Roosevelt  and  Rider  Roose 
velt  I. 


If   I   were  Rider  Roosevelt  and  Rider   Roose 
velt  I, 

No  commonplace  amusements  would  my  nature 
satisfy. 

I'd  bust  a  broncho  every  morn,  as  no  mere  cow 
boy  could, 

And  sprint  to  Cabin  John  and  back  with  lucky 
Leonard  Wood; 

Then    after   lunch    I'd    rush    across    and    from 
Elihu's  files 

Extract  some   confidential   facts  and  reprimand 
old  Miles; 

[  108! 


THE   MEN   WHO    BLAZE   THE   TRAIL 

I'd  snub  Mark  Hanna  and  his  friends  and  on 
myself  rely — 

If  I  were  Rider  Roosevelt  and  Rider  Roose 
velt  I. 

If  I  were  Rider  Roosevelt  and  Rider  Roose 
velt  I, 

He'd  think  it  strange  that  I  should  thus  the  de 
cencies  defy, 

And  ask  me  if  I  had  forgot  the  gallant  things 
Miles  did 

While  I  squirmed  in  my  mother's  arms,  a  squall 
ing,  kicking  kid — 

How  Miles  fought  on  a  hundred  fields  where 
thickest  raged  the  fray, 

With  nary  nigger  regiment  to  charge  and  save 
the  day; 

At  least  I  am  inclined  to  think  that  he  would  thus 
reply— 

If  I  were  Rider  Roosevelt  and  Rider  Roose 
velt  I. 


[109] 


THE    MEN    WHO    BLAZE    THE    TRAIL 


GIVE  US  WATER,  UNCLE  SAM 

What  we  want  out  here  is  Water, 
Just  plain  Water,  Uncle  Sam, 

And  we  think  you  ought  to  bring  it 
From  a   Governmental  Dam. 

We've  just  learned  that  you've  decided,. 

After  many  years'  delay, 
To  supply  the  West  with  Water — 

If  you  find  the  scheme  will  pay. 

We've  been  praying  hard  for  moisture, 
Through  the  hot  and  arid  years, 

But  our  cry  of  ''Water!  Water!" 
Has  just  lately  reached  your  ears. 

Though  we're  longing  for  this  liquid, 
Yet  we  wouldn't  have  you  think 

For  a  solitary  minute 

That  we  want  the  stuff  to  drink. 

We  have  other  kinds  of  liquids, 
From  the  best  brands  to  the  worst, 

And  they're  mighty  efficacious 

When  it  comes  to  quenching  thirst. 

[no] 


THE   MEN   WHO    BLAZE   THE   TRAIL 

We  maintain  out  here  that  Water 
Its  great  function  best  fulfills 

When  it  irrigates  our  ranches 
And  brings  power  to  our  mills. 

Come  out  here  and  help  us  finish 
What  God  left  about  half  done 

When  He  turned  the  Desert  over 
To  the  Lizard  and  the  Sun. 


If  you  can't  resist  the  impulse 
That  impels  you  to  expand, 

You  can  find  room  for  Expansion 
On  our  ancient  arid  land. 


(As  we  furnished  you  with  Silver 
When  you  wanted  to  resume, 

Now  that  you've  espoused  Expansion, 
We'll  provide  the  bridal-room.) 

You  can  go  up  in  these  mountains 

And  construct  a  reservoir 
For  a  tithe  of  what  you  squandered 

In  your  recent  foreign  war. 


THE    MEN    WHO    BLAZE    THE    TRAIL 

You  can  go  down  in  these  valleys 
And  produce  a  flowing  well, 

And  you  need  not  run  your  auger 
More  than  half  way  down  to  hell. 

You  can  dig  a  hundred  ditches 
From  the  Platte  to  Tonopah 

For  much  less  than  you  have  taxed  us 
For  your  ditch  at  Panama. 

With  the  differential  duties 

Which  you  pay  the  Sugar  Trust 

You  can  pump  sufficient  Water 
To  forever  lay  our  dust. 

If  you'll  only  bring  us  Water 
To  our  arid  lands  out  West, 

We  will  ask  no  further  favors, 
And  will  quickly  do  the  rest. 

We  will  make  the  Desert  blossom 
Like  the  fertile  Philippines, 

Where  you're  killing  off  the  natives 
While  we  furnish  you  the  means. 

[112] 


THE    MEN   WHO    BLAZED  THE    TRAIL 

We  will  show  you  what  strong  muscles, 
When  engaged  in  honest  toil, 

Can  produce  on  barren  uplands 
From  a  shallow,  sandy  soil. 

We  will  fill  your  empty  coffers 
With  the  stuff  you  like  so  well — 

Then  the  bankers  can't  control  you, 
For  you'll  have  gold  bricks  to  sell. 

When  this  prayer  of  ours  you  answer 
And  our  arid  lands  redeem, 

You  will  see  the  full  fruition 
Of  our  hydrographic  dream. 

Then  you'll  see  our  verdant  valleys, 
Smiling  'neath  our  azure  skies, 

Circled  by  our  purple  mountains, 
Like  the  vales  of  Paradise. 


What  we  want  out  here  is  Water, 
Just  plain  Water,  Uncle  Sam, 

And  we  think  you  ought  to  bring  it 
From  a  Governmental  Dam. 


THE   MEN   WHO    BLAZE   THE   TRAIL 


THE  NYE  COUNTY  ASS 

The  Ass  that  roams  yon  barren  hill 

In  search  of  sustenance 
Is  not  what  carping  critics  call 

A  subject  for  romance. 

The  housewives  in  this  arid  town 
Whose  water  he  has  spilled, 

We're  very  sure,  from  what  they  say, 
Would  like  to  see  him  killed. 

The  prejudice  of  these,  and  all 
Who're  wakened  from  their  sleep 

At  midnight  by  his  mournful  song, 
Is  permanent  and  deep. 

But  he  who  burns  the  midnight  oil 
And  barters  night  for  day 

Is  never  wakened  from  his  sleep 
By  harsh  nocturnal  bray. 

And  such  a  one,  with  prejudice 
Against  nor  beast  nor  class, 

Would  crave  to  be  allowed  to  speak 
A  good  word  for  the  Ass. 


THE    MEN    WHO    BLAZE    THE    TRAIL 

The  Ass  has  been  so  vilified — 

So  persecuted,  too — 
That  we're  inclined  to  spare  the  space 

And  give  the  cuss  his  due. 


Look  at  the  picture  here  displayed; 

Inspect  it  with  all  care — 
Gaze  in  that  solemn  little  face 

And  read  the  story  there: 

The  pathos  of  two  thousand  years 
Of  ancient  jokes  and  low, 

Of  insufficient  nourishment, 
And  hereditary  woe. 

Go  take  your  Bible  from  the  shelf — 
Or  come  and  borrow  ours ! — 

And  turn  to  where  it  tells  about 
The  great  diluvian  showers. 

Examine  well  the  pictures  there, 
And  you  will  quick  remark 

That  Asses  just  like  these  of  ours 
Took  passage  in  the  ark. 


THE    MEN    WHO    BLAZE    THE    TRAIL 

Of  all  the  races  on  the  earth — 
Or  man,  or  fowl,  or  beast — 

We've  every  reason  to  believe 
The  Ass  has  changed  the  least. 

And  when  it  comes  to  pedigree, 

Since  Adam's  slip  and  fall 
We  are  convinced  the  Ass  can  show 

The  purest  one  of  all. 

Ours   is   the   same  old,  patient   Ass — 

Ears,  appetite  and  all — 
That  scaled  the  heights  of  Lebanon 

And  browsed  by  Zion's  wall. 

His  gentle  voice,   from  time  remote, 
Has  undergone  no  change, 

And  when  we  hear  it  in  the  night 
It  has  the  same  old  range. 

The  song  he  sings  on  yonder  hill, 
So  loud — and  sad — and  slow, 

Was  heard  in  far-off  Palestine 
Two  thousand  years  ago. 
[116] 


THE   MEN   WHO    BLAZE   THE   TRAIL 

It  is  the  same  heart-breaking  song, 
Pitched  in  the  same  sad  key, 

That  woke  the  humble  fishermen 
On  storm-tossed  Galilee. 


The  shepherds  heard  the  sad  refrain 
That  wondrous  winter  night, 

When  far  athwart  the  eastern  sky 
God  flashed  the  World's  New  Light. 

And  now  we  make  a  plea  to  all 
To  cease  their  loud  complaints 

Against  the  songs  of  long  ago 
That  satisfied  the  saints. 


The  Ass  has  borne  your  burdens  here 

So  patiently  and  long, 
That  you  should  bear  as  patiently 

The  burden  of  his  song. 

And  when  you  meet  a  weary  Ass, 

O'erburdened  on  the  road, 
No  matter  whether  man  or  beast, 

Help  lighten  up  his  load. 


THE    MEN    WHO    BLAZE    THE    TRAIL 

THE  PROMOTER 

'T  was  'way  back  in  the  early  days — a  year  ago 

last  fall- 
When  the  leases  was  perducin'  big  an'  Tonopah 

was  small; 
When  Butler  use  to  stake  the  boys  to  do  'most 

anything, 
An'  never  took  no  notes,  but  said,  "Jest  Pav  me 

in  the  spring !" 
Before  Zeb  Kendall  made  his  pile,  an'   full  o' 

local  pride, 
Put  up  his   costly   Palace  an'  a   sleepin'   place 

supplied — 

Before  Frank  Golden  built  a  block,  with  confi 
dence  as  great, 
That's  a  marvel  to  all  strangers  an'  an  honor  to 

the  State. 

Sence  then  we've  had  permoters  here  from  al 
most  every  State, 

From  the  breezy   Bay  o'   Fundy  to  the   foggy 
Golden  Gate — 

From  Montana  down  to  Texas,  an'  from  there 
to  Puget  Sound — 

An'    there's    always    'bout    a    hundred   o'    these 
gents  a-loafin'  round. 
[118] 


THE    MEN    WHO    BLAZE    THE    TRAIL 

They've  reduced  our  common  fractions  an'  con 
solidated  claims 

An'  they've  christened  all  our  prospects  with 
their  double-jointed  names 

Till  it  looks  as  though  the  nation  hasn't  any 
more  to  lend — 

An'  extended  our  extensions  till  there's  nothin' 
to  extend. 

One  night  a  mine  permoter  from  the  mercenary 

East, 
With  his  cheek  all  smoothly  shaven  like  a  Phily- 

delphy  priest, 

Got  into  camp  from  Sody  on  an  overloaded  stage, 
With  his  eyes  inflamed  an'  rimy,  an'  a-smellin' 

strong  o'  sage; 
An'  they  dumped  him  down  at  Stimler's,  where 

he  stomped  aroun'  an'  cussed 
'Bout  the  bloomin'  arid  desert  while  a-shakin'  off 

the  dust; 
Then  he  turned  an'  tackled  Stimler,  sayin'  loudly. 

"I  persoom 

That  you  filed  my  application  for  a  two-com 
partment  room !" 
Stimler  pondered  for  a  minit,  then  he  sort  o' 

smiled  an'  said : 


THE    MEN    WHO    BLAZE    THE    TRAIL 

"You'll  be  mighty  lucky,  pardner,  if  you  get  a 

'single'  bed! 
I  jest  filed  yer  application,  but  I  ain't  got  nary 

'sweet/ 
An'  the  market  ain't  supplyin'  us  with  very  much 

to  eat; 
But  we've  got  a  lot  o'  liquids  that's  as  good  as 

you  can  find — 

Pervided  you're  acclimeted  to  our  pertic'lar  kind : 
An'  if  you're  feelin'  frisky  an'  a-hankerin'  to  bet, 
We  can  furnish  you  with  faro  an'  amuse  you 

with  roulette." 


Then  a  lot  o'  Mizpah  leasers  that  was  lingerin' 

aroun' 
They  allured  the  thirsty  stranger  to  go  out  an' 

see  the  town, 
An'  they  took  him  down  to  Brougher's  an'  they 

showed  him  every  sight 
An'   persood  the  local  customs  which   controls 

the  camp  at  night, 
An'  when  they  got  him  sleepy  and  suffishuntly 

confused, 
They  took  him  to  a  tunnel  which  was  very  sel- 

dum  used, 

[120] 


THE    MEN    WHO    BLAZE    THE    TRAIL 

An'  they  made  the  cuss  a  mattress  out  o'  thou 
sand-dollar  ore, 

An'  they  covered  him  with  empty  sacks  an'  left 
him  there  to  snore. 

Next  afternoon  this  expert,  when  he  got  himself 

released, 
Perpared  a  tecknicul  report  an'  sent  the  same 

back  East. 
He  said :    "A  chap  named  Butler  was  a-munkey- 

in'  aroun' 
An'  stumbled  'gainst  a  chunk  o'  ore  protrudin' 

from  the  groun', 

An'  jest  because  it  assayed  high  an'  looked  un 
common  fine 
He  sort  o'  lost  his  head  an'  thought  he'd  found 

a  payin'  mine." 
An'  then  he  closed  his  first  report:     "They'll 

work  her  out  by  spring — 
I  spent  a  whole  night  underground  an'  couldn't 

see  a  thing!" 

Next  day  this  here  permoter  was  interrogatin' 

Jim, 
With  a  sort  o'  sneakin'  notion  that  he'd  get  the 

best  o'  him. 

[121] 


THE    MEN    WHO    BLAZE    THE    TRAIL 

They  was  settin'  down  to  Kendall's  with  a  jug 
o'  Holland  gin, 

Which  the  same  they  was  imbibin'  out  o'  glasses 
made  o'  tin, 

When  this  expert  sprung  the  question,  with  a 
wise  look  all  aroun', 

"Are  you  certain,  Mister  Butler,  that  yer  bloom- 
in'  ledge  goes  down?" 

Old  Jim  he  thought  a  second,  while  a-gazin'  in 
his  cup, 

Then  he  answered  sort  o'  sudden,  "Well,  by 
God!  she  don't  go  up!" 

That  night  he  made  his  last  report — this  expert 

of  renown: 
"I  find  the  Mizpah  don't  go  up,  an'  therefore 

turn  her  down!" 
Last  month  the  news  it  got  back  East — it  was 

too  good  to  keep — 
That  every  mine  in  Tonopah  is  rich  an'  wide  an' 

deep! 
When  this  permoter  heard  the  news,  he  went 

an'  got  in  bed, 
An'  tossed  an'  groaned  there  for  a  week,  an* 

then  they  found  him  dead, 
An'  the  coroner's  certificut  it  was  consize  an* 

brief: 
"The  late  lamented  wasn't  sick — he  simply  died 

o'  grief!" 

1 123]! 


THE    MEN    WHO    BLAZE    THE    TRAIL 


LEM  ALLEN  OF  CHURCHILL 

We  sing  of  Lem  Allen  of  Churchill* 
The  man  who  runs  second  to  Sparks, 

And  his  rare  old  collection  of  whiskers 
And  his  extra  dry  brand  of  remarks. 

We  interviewed  Lem  up  at  Reno, 

And  while   drinking   dry   Mumm — which  he 

bought — 
We  told  him  our  Nye  county  voters 

Were  anxious  to  know  what  he  thought. 

He  gave  us  his  candid  opinion 
Why  Silver  should  reign  as  of  old, 

And  the  same  was  as  weighty  and  solid 
As  a  brick  made  of  Tonopah  gold. 

He  dissected  our  absentee  statesmen 
Who  mingle  with  Morgan  too  much 

And  spend  their  vacations   in  Europe 

With   Frenchmen  and  English  and  Dutch. 

*  Lieutenant-Governor  of  Nevada,  1903-6. 


THE    MEN    WHO    BLAZE    THE    TRAIL 

His  voice  it  got  husky  and  faltered 

When  the  ' 'Crime"  he  began  to  discuss, 

And  he  looked  so  exceedingly  arid 

That  we  asked  him  to  moisten  with  us. 

He  quickly  absorbed  the  prescription, 

But  insisted  on  paying  again, 
And  he  said,  "In  regard  to  my  dryness 

I  guess  I  had  ought  to  explain: 

"I  try  to  raise  sheep  on  the  desert, 

In  a  county  adjacent  to  Nye; 
So  it's  largely  climatic  conditions 

Which  renders  my  language  so  dry." 

(Nine  terms  in  the  Silver  State  Senate, 
And  still  he  works  hard  on  a  ranch, 

Which  proves  that  old  Lem  never  tasted 

The  plums  that  are  picked  from  that  branch.) 

He  depicted  the  sorrows  of  Silver — 

He  called  her  his  "White  Virgin   Queen"— 
Since  that  hard-hearted,  yellow-skinned  traitor 

Went  roving  and  treated  her  mean. 


THE   MEN   WHO    BLAZE    THE    TRAIL 

He  deeply  deplored  the  decadence 
Of  everything  good  in  the  State — 

He  asserted  that  even  our  whisky 
Is  losing  its  strength  here  of  late. 

He  claimed  that  the  market  for  mutton, 
Like  the  market  for  silver,  's  too  cheap — 

That  Sparks  waxes  rich  raising  cattle, 
While  he  nearly  starves  raising  sheep. 

He  declared  that  the  wealth  of  our  statesmen 

Has  slipped  a  few  cogs  in  repute 
Since  Clark  ran  a  corner  on  copper 

And  raised  the  quotations  at  Butte. 

He  painted  a  picture  of  plenty, 

With  the  skill  of  a  master  of  old, 

When  Silver  was  Queen  of  the  Mountains 
And  her  legalized  Consort  was  Gold. 

He  told  the  sad  tale  of  our  miners 

Who've  hopelessly  toiled  through  the  years, 

While  their  wives  and  their  children  have  fasted 
And  sprinkled  the  desert  with  tears. 
I  125  ] 


THE   MEN   WHO    BLAZE    THE    TRAIL 

He  paid  his  respects  to  the  bankers 
Who  conspired  to  make  Silver  low-priced, 

And  supported  each  separate  statement 
With  a  similar  statement  by  Christ. 

He  projected  his  mind  to  the  future, 

When  Gold  will  be  kicked  from  the  Street 

And  return  to  the  Queen  of  the  Mountains 
And  grovel  in  shame  at  her  feet. 

Just  as  Lem  reached  the  heart  of  his  subject 
We  were  forced  to  depart  for  our  train — 

But  we  leaned  on  the  bar  ere  we  vanished 
To  permit  him  to  treat  us  again. 


Now,  list,  all  you  Nye  county  voters, 
To  our  plain  but  prophetic  remarks: 

You  can  bet  that  Lem  Allen  of  Churchill 
Will  run  a  hot  second  to  Sparks. 

And  if  Lem  keeps  on  talking  and  treating 
In  the  extra  dry  way  he's  begun, 

He  will  turn  down  the  traitors  to  Silver 
By  a  ratio  of  sixteen  to  one. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 
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JUL 


33  1925 


50m-7,*16 


395506 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


